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HOME  PASTORALS, 


ALLADS    AND    LYRICS 


BY 


BAYARD    TAYLOR 


BOSTON : 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  Co. 
1875. 


COPYRIGHT,  1875. 
BY   BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


AD    AMICOS. 


MOUNT    CUBA,    OCTOBER    10,    1874. 

SOMETIMES  an  hour  of  Fate's  serenest  weather 
Strikes  through  our  changeful  sky  its  coming  beams; 

Somewhere  above  us,  in  elusive  ether, 

Waits  the  fulfilment  of  our  dearest  dreams. 

So,  when  the  wayward  time  and  gift  have  blended, 
When  hope  beholds  relinquished  visions  won, 

The  heavens  are  broken  and  a  blue  more  splendid 
Holds  in  its  bosom  an  enchanted  sun. 

Then  words  ungusssed,  in  faith's  own  shyness  guarded, 
To  ears  unused  their  welcome  music  bear: 

Then  hands  help  on  that  doubtingly  retarded, 
And  love  is  liberal  as  the  Summer  air. 

The  thorny  chaplet  of  a  slow  probation 
Becomes  the  laurel  Fate  so  long  denied; 

The  form  achieved  smiles  on  the  aspiration, 
And  dream  is  deed  and  Art  is  justified ! 


I  AD  A  MIC  OS. 

Ah,  nevermore  the  dull  neglect,  that  smothers 
The  bard's  dependent  being,  shall  return; 

Forgotten  lines  are  on  the  lips  of  others, 
Extinguished  thoughts  in  other  spirits  burn ! 

* 

Still  hoarded  lives  what  seemed  so  spent  and  wasted, 
And  echoes  come  from  dark  or  empty  years ; 

Here  brims  the  golden  cup,  no  more  untasted, 
But  fame  is  dim  through  mists  of  grateful  tears. 

I  sang  but  as  the  living  spirit  taught  me, 

Beat  towards  the  light,  perchance  with  wayward  wing; 
And  still  must  answer,  for  the  cheer  you  've  brought  me 

I  sang  because  I  could  not  choose  but  sing. 

From  that  wide  air,  whose  greedy  silence  swallows 
So  many  voices,  even  as  mine  seemed  lost, 

I  hear  you  speak,  and  sudden  glory  follows, 
As  from  a  falling  tongue  of  Pentecost. 

So  heard  and  hailed  by  you,  that,  standing  nearest, 
Blend  love  with  faith  in  one  far-shining  flame, 

I  hold  anew  the  earliest  gift  and  dearest, — 
The  happy  Song  that  cares  not  for  its  fame ! 

B    T. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

AD  AMICOS iii 

HOME    PASTORALS. 

PROEM 3 

MAY-TIME 9 

AUGUST .20 

NOVEMBER 33 

L'ENVOI '..  44 

BALLADS. 

THE  HOLLY-TREE .49 

JOHN  REED 57 

THE  OLD  PENNSYLVANIA  FARMER 62 

NAPOLEON  AT  GOTHA 69 

THE  ACCOLADE  .        . 77 

ERIC  AND  AXEL 83 

LYRICS. 

THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  DAY 89 

IN  THE  LISTS 92 

THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THE  GODS 94 

NOTUS  IGNOTO '    100 

IN  MY  VINEYARD 104 


V1»  CONTEXTS. 

THE  TWO  HOMES IM 

IRIS 116 

IMPLORA  PACE 120 

PENN  CALVIN I22 

SUMMER  NIGHT      .       . I26 

THE  SLEEPER     .        . l^l 

MY  FARM:  A  FABLE 1^ 

IlARPOCRATES        ^8 

RUN  WILD      .                I44 

"CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS" i48 

THE  GUESTS  OF  NIGHT         ..*....  152 

CHANT I56 

IMPROVISATIONS j^g 

CANOPUS     i J6; 

CUPIDO .  j-! 

SONNET       .        .        . .177 

FROM  THE  NORTH 1-8 

A  WEDDING  SONNET 179 

CHRISTMAS  SONNETS jSo 

A  STATESMAN    „                               ......  184 

ODES. 

C.F.TTYSnURG   ODE jS; 

SHAKESPEARE'S  STATUE .        .  199 

GOETHE       .       .       .       ......    .        .205 


HOME    PASTORALS. 


HOME     PASTORALS. 


PROEM. 

I. 

NOW,     when     the    mocking-bird,    returned    from    his 

Florida  winter, 
Sings  where  the  sprays  of  the  elm  first  touch  the  plumes 

of  the  cypress  ; 
When  on  the  southern  porch  the  stars  of  the  jessamine 

sparkle 
Faint  in  the  dusk  of  leaves ;  and  the  thirsty  ear  of  the 

Poet 
Calls   for    the   cup   of    song   himself    must   mix   ere    it 

gladden,  — 

Careful  vintager  first,  though  latest  guest  at  the  banquet,— 
Where  shall  he  turn  ?     What  foreign  Muse  invites  to  her 

vineyard  ? 

Out  of  what  bloom  of  the  Past  the  wine  of  remoter  roman 
ces? 


4  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Foxy  our  grapes,  of  earthy  tang  and  a  wildwood  astrin- 

gence 
Unto   fastidious   tongues  ;   but   later,   it   may    be,    their 

juices, 
Mellowed  by  time,  shall  grow  to  be  sweet  on  the  palates 

of  others. 
So  will  I  paint  in  my  verse  the  forms  of  the  life  I  am 

born  to, 
Not  medieval,  or  ancient!     For  whatso   hath   palpable 

colors, 
Drawn  from  being  and  blood,  nor  thrown  by  the  spectrum 

of  Fancy, 
Charms  in  the  Future  even  as  truth  of  the  Past  in  the 

Present. 

II. 

Not  for  this,  nor  for  nearer  voices  of  intimate  counsel, — 
When  were  ever  they  heeded  ?  —  but  since  I  am  sated 

with  visions, 

Sated  with  all  the  siren  Past  and  its  rhythmical  phantoms, 
Here  will   I  seek   my  songs  in  the  quiet  fields   of   my 

boyhood, 
Here,  where  the  peaceful  tent  of  home  is  pitched  for  a 

season. 


PROEM.  5 

High  is  the  house  and  sunny  the  lawn :  the  capes  of  the 

woodlands, 
Bluff,  and  buttressed  with  many  boughs,  are  gates  to  the 

distance 

Blue  with  hill  over  hill,  that  sink  as  the  pausing  of  music. 
Here  the  hawthorn  blossoms,  the  breeze  is  blithe  in  the 

orchards, 
Winds  from  the  Chesapeake  dull  the  sharper  edge  of  the 

winters, 
Letting  the  cypress  live,  and  the  mounded  box,  and  the 

holly ; 
Here  the  chestnuts  fall  and  the  cheeks  of  peaches  are 

crimson, 

Ivy  clings  to  the  wall  and  sheltered  fattens  the  fig-tree. 
North  and  South  are  as  one  in  the  blended  growth  of  the 

region, 
One  in  the  temper  of  man,  and  ancient,  inherited  habits. 


III. 

Yet,  though  fair  as  the  loveliest  landscapes  of  pastoral 

England, 
Who   hath   touched    them    with  song?    and   whence   my 

music,  and  whither  ? 


6  J/OME  PASTORALS. 

Life  still  bears  the  stamp  of  its  early  struggle  and  labor,     «. 

Still  is  shorn  of  its  color  by  pious  Quaker  repression, 

Still  is  turbid  with  calm,  or  only  swift  in  the  shallows. 

Gone  are  the  olden  cheer,  the  tavern-dance  and  the  fox 
hunt, 

Muster  at  trainings,  buxom  lasses  that  rode  upon  pillions, 

Husking-parties  and  jovial  home-comings  after  the  wed,- 
ding, 

Gone,  as  they  never  had  been !  —  and  now,  the  serious 
people 

Solemnly  gather  to  hear  some  wordy  itinerant  speaker 

Talking  of  Temperance,  Peace,  or  the  Right  of  Suffrage 
for  Women. 

Sport,  that  once  like  a  boy  was  equally  awkward  and  rest 
less, 

Sits  with  thumb  in  his  mouth,  while  a  petulant  ethical 
bantling 

Struts  with  his  rod,  and  threatens  our  careless  natural 
joyance. 

Weary  am  I  with  all  this  preaching  the  force  of  example, 

Painful  duty  to  self,  and  painfuller  still  to  one's  neighbor, 

Moral  shibboleths,  dinned  in  one's  ears  with  slavering 
unction, 

Till,  for  the  sake  of  a  change,  profanity  loses  its  terrors. 


PROEM.  7 

IV. 

Clearly,   if  song   is   here  to   be  found,  I   must   seek   it 

within  me : 

Song,  the  darling  spirit  that  ever  asserted  her  freedom, 
Soaring  on  sunlit  wing  above  the  clash  of  opinions, 
Poised  at  the  height  of  Good  with  a  sweeter  and  lovelier 

instinct ! 
Call  thee  I  will  not,  my  life's  one  dear  and  beautiful 

Angel, 
Wayward,  faithful  and  fond ;  but,  like  the  Friends  in  the 

Meeting, 

Waiting,  will  so  dispose  my  soul  in  the  pastoral  stillness, 
That,  denied  to  Desire,  Obedience  yet  may  invite  thee  ! 


MAY-TIME. 

I. 

YES,  it  is  May  !  though  not  that  the  young  leaf  pushes 

its  velvet 
Out    of    the    sheath,    that    the    stubbornest    sprays    are 

beginning  to  bourgeon, 

Larks  responding  aloft  to  the  mellow  flute  of  the  bluebird, 
Nor  that  song  and   sunshine  and  odors  of  life   are  im- 

mingled 
Even  as  wines  in  a  cup ;  but  that  May,  with  her  delicate 

philtres 
Drenches   the   veins   and   the   valves   of  the   heart,  —  a 

double  possession, 

Touching  the  sleepy  sense  with  sweet,  irresistible  languor, 
Piercing,  in  turn,  the  languor  with  flame :   as  the  spirit, 

requickened, 
Stirred  in  the  womb  of  the  world,  foreboding  a  birth  and 

a  bein<r ! 


10  HOME  PASTORALS. 

II. 

Who    can   hide  from    her   magic,   break   her   insensible 

thraldom, 
Clothing  the  wings  of  eager  delight  as  with  plumage  of 

trouble  ? 
Sweeter,   perchance,   the   embryo    Spring,   forerunner   of 

April, 
When  on  banks  that  slope  to  the   south   the  saxifrage 

wakens, 

When,  beside  the  dentils  of  frost  that  cornice  the  road 
side, 
Weeds   are   a  promise,   and  woods    betray   the   trailing 

arbutus. 

Once  is  the  sudden  miracle  seen,  the  truth  and  its  rapture 
Felt,   and  the  pulse  of   the   possible  May  is  throbbing 

already. 
Thus  unto  me,   a  boy,   the  clod  that  was  warm  in  the 

sunshine, 
Murmurs  of  thaw,  and  imagined  hurry  of  growth  in  the 

herbage, 
Airs    from    over    the    southern    hills,  —  and   something 

within  me 
Catching  a  deeper  sign  from  these  than  ever  the  senses, — 


MAY-TIME.  II 

Came  as  a  call :  I  awoke,  and  heard,  and  endeavored  to 

answer. 

Whence  should  fall  in  my  lap  the  sweet,  impossible  marvel  ? 
When  would  the  silver  fay  appear  from  the  willowy  thicket? 
When  from  the  yielding  rock  the  gnome  with  his  basket  of 

jewels  ? 
"  When,  ah  when  ?  "   I  cried,  on  the  steepest  perch  of  the 

hillside 
Standing  with  arms  outspread,  and  waiting  a  wind  that 

should  bear  me 
Over  the  apple-tree  tops  and  over  the  farms  of  the  valley. 


III. 

He,  that  will,  let  him  backward  set  the  stream  of  his  fancy, 
So    to    evoke  a  dream    from    the   ruined   world   of   his 

boyhood  ! 
Lo,   it   is   easy !      Yonder,    lapped   in   the   folds   of   the 

uplands, 

Bickers  the  brook,  to  warmer  hollows  southerly  creeping, 
Where  the  veronica's  eyes  are  blue,  the  buttercup  brightens, 
Where  the  anemones  blush,  the  coils  of  fern  are  unrolling 
Hour  by  hour,  and  over  them  flutter  the  sprinkles  of 

shadow. 


12  HOME  PASTORALS. 

There  shall  I  lie  and  dangle  my  naked  feet  in  the  water, 
Watching  the  sleepy  buds  as  one  after  one  they  awaken, 
Seeking  a  lesson  in  each,  a  brookside  primrose  of  Words 
worth  ?  — 

Lie  in  the  lap  of  May,  as  a  babe  that  loveth  the  cradle, 
I,  whom  her  eye  inspires,  whom  the  breath  of  her  passion 

arouses  ? 

Say,  shall  I  stray  with  bended  head  to  look  for  her  posies, 
When  with  other  wings  than  the  coveted  lift  of  the  breezes 
Far  I  am  borne,  at  her  call :  and  the  pearly  abysses  are 

parted 
Under  my  flight :    the  glimmering  edge   of   the    planet, 

receding, 

Rounds  to  the  splendider  sun  and  ripens  to  glory  of  color. 
Veering  at  will,  I  view  from  a  crest  of  the  jungled  Antilles 
Sparkling,  limitless  billows  of  greenness,  falling  and 

flowing 
Into  fringes  of  palm   and  the  foam  of  the  blossoming 

coffee,  — 

Cratered  isles  in  the  offing,  milky  blurs  of  the  coral 
Keys,  and  vast,  beyond,  the  purple  arc  of  the  ocean  : 
Or,  in  the  fanning  furnace-winds  of  the  tenantless  Pampas, 
Hear  the  great  leaves  clash,  the  shiver  and  hiss  of  the 

reed-beds. 


MAY-TIME.  13 

Thus  for  the  crowded  fulness  of  life  I  leave  its  becrin- 

O 

nings, 

Not  content  to  feel  the  sting  of  an  exquisite  promise 
Ever  renewed  and  accepted,  and  ever  freshly  forgotten. 


IV. 

Wherefore,  now,  recall  the  pictures  of  memory  ?  <  Where 
fore 

Yearn  for  a  fairer  seat  of  life  than  this  I  have  chosen  ? 

Ah,  while  my  quiver  of  wandering  years  was  yet  unex 
hausted, 

Treading  the  lands,  a  truant  that  wasted  the  gifts  of  his 
freedom, 

Sweet  was  the  sight  of  a  home  —  or  tent,  or  cottage,  or 
castle,  — 

Sweet  unto  pain ;  and  never  beheld  I  a  Highlander's 
shieling, 

Never  a  Flemish  hut  by  a  lazy  canal  and  its  pollards, 

Never  the  snowy  gleam  of  a  porch  through  Apennine 
orchards, 

Never  a  nest  of  life  on  the  hoary  hills  of  Judcea, 

Dropped  on  the  steppes  of  the  Don,  or  hidden  in  valleys 
of  Norway, 


14  HOME  PASTORALS. 

But,  with  the  fond  and  foolish  trick  of  a  heart  that  was 

homeless, 

Each  was   mine,   as    I    passed :   I    entered    in    and    pos 
sessed  it, 
Looked,   in   fancy,  forth,   and    adjusted   my  life    to    the 

landscape. 

Easy  it  seemed,  to  shift  the  habit  of  blood  as  a  mantle, 
Fable  a  Past,  and  lightly  take  the  form  of  the  Future, 
So    that   a   rest    were    won,    a    hold    for   the    filaments, 

floating 

Loose  in  the  winds  of  Life.     Here,  now,  behold  it  accom 
plished  ! 

Nay,  but  the  restless  Fate,  the  certain  Nemesis  follows, 
As  to  the  bird  the  voice  that  bids  htm  prepare  for  his 

passage, 
Saying:  "Not  this  is  the  whole,  not  these,  nor  any,  the 

borders 
Set   for   thy   being;   this   measured,   slow   repetition    of 

Nature, 

Painting,  effacing,  in  turn,  with  hardly  a  variant  outline, 
Cannot  replace  for  thee  the  Earth's  magnificent  frescos ! 
Art  thou  content  to  inhabit  a  simple  pastoral  chamber, 
Leaving   the   endless  halls   of   her  grandeur   and   glory 
untrodden  ? " 


MAY-TIME.  1$ 

V. 

Man,   I   answer,  is   more :    I    am   glutted  with   physical 

beauty 
Born  of  the  suns  and  rains  and  the  plastic  throes  of  the 

ages. 
Man  is  more ;  but  neither  dwarfed  like   a  tree   of   the 

Arctic 
Vales,  nor  clipped  into  shape  as  a  yew  in  the  gardens 

of  princes. 
Give  me  to  know  him,  here,  where  inherited   laws   and 

disguises 
Hide  him  at  times  from  himself,  —  where  his  thought  is 

chiefly  collective, 
Where,  with  numberless  others  fettered  like  slaves  in  a 

coffle, 

Each  insists  he  is  free,  inasmuch  as  his  bondage  is  willing. 
Who  hath  rent  from  the  babe  the  primitive  rights  of  his 

nature  ? 
Who  hath  fashioned  his  yoke  ?  who  patterned  beforehand 

his  manhood  ? 

Say,  shall  never  a  soul  be  moved  to  challenge  its  portion, 
Seek  for  a  wider  heritage  lost,  a  new  di sen th raiment, 
Sending  a  root  to  be  fed  from  the  deep  original  sources, 


16  HOME  PASTORALS. 

So  that  the  fibres  wax  till  they  split  the  centuried  granite  ? 
Surely,  starting  alike  at  birth  from  the  ignorant  Adam, 
Every  type  of  the  race  were  here  indistinctly  repeated, 
Hinted  in  hopes  and  desires,  and  harmless  divergence 

of  habit, 
Save    that    the   law   of    the    common    mind    is    invisibly 

written 
Even  on  our  germs,  and  Life  but  warms  into  color  the 

letters. 

VI. 

Thence,  it   may  be,  accustomed   to  dwell   in   a  moving 

horizon, 

Here,  alas !  the  steadfast  circle  of  things  is  a  weary 
Round  of  monotonous  forms :  I  am  haunted  by  livelier 

visions. 
Linking  men  and  their  homes,  endowing  both  with  the 

language, 

Sweeter  than  speech,  the  soul  detects  in  a  natural  picture, 
I  to  my  varying  moods  the  fair  remembrances  summon, 
Clad  that  once  and  somewhere  each  was  a  perfect  pos 
session. 

Two  will  I  paint,  the  forms  of  the  double  passion  of  May- 
time,  — 


MAY-TIME.  I/ 

Rest  and  activity,  indolent  calm  and  the  sweep  of  the 
senses. 

One,  the  soft  green  lap  of  a  deep  Dalecarlian  valley, 

Sheltered  by  piny  hills  and  the  distant  porphyry  moun 
tains  ; 

Low  and  red  the  house,  and  the  meadow  spotted  with 
cattle ; 

All  things  fair  and  clear  in  the  light  of  the  midsummer 
Sabbath, 

Touching,  beyond  the  steel-blue  lake  and  the  twinkle  of 
birch-trees, 

Houses  that  nestle  like  chicks  around  the  motherly 
church-roof. 

There,  I  know,  there  is  innocence,  ancient  duty  and 
honor, 

Love  that  looks  from  the  eye  and  truth  that  sits  on  the 
forehead, 

Pure,  sweet  blood  of  health,  and  the  harmless  freedom 
of  nature, 

Witless  of  blame ;  for  the  heart  is  safe  in  inviolate  child 
hood. 

Dear  is  the  scene,  but  it  fades :  I  see,  with  a  leap  of  the 
pulses, 

Tawny  under  the  lidless  sun  the  sand  of  the  Desert, 


1 8  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Fiery  solemn  hills,  and  the  burning  green  of  the  date-trees 
Belting  the  Nile :  the  tramp  of  the  curvetting  stallions  is 

muffled  ; 
Brilliantly  stamped  on  the  blue  are  the  white  ai\d  scarlet 

of  turbans ; 

Lances  prick  the  sky  with  a  starry  glitter  ;  the  fulness, 
Joy,  and  delight   of   life   are   sure   of   the  day  and  the 

morrow, 

Certain  the  gifts  of  sense,  and  the  simplest  order  suffices. 
Breathing  again,  as  once,  the  perfect  air  of  the  Desert, 
Good  it  seems  to  escape  from  the  endless  menace  of  duty, 
There,  where  the  will  is  free,  and  wilfully  plays  with  its 

freedom, 
And  the  lack  of  will  for  the  evil  thing  is  a  virtue. 


VII. 

Man   is  more,  I   have  said:  but  the  subject  mood  is  a 

fashion 
Wrought  of  his  lighter  mind  and  dyed  with  the  hues  of 

o  o  J 

his  senses. 

Then  to  be  truly  more,  to  be  verily  free,  to  be  master 
As  beseems  to  the  haughty  soul  that  is  lifted  by  knowl 
edge 


MAY -TIME.  T9 

Over   the   multitude's    law,    enforcing   their   own    acqui 
escence,  — 

Lifted  to  longing  and  will,  in  its  satisfied  loneliness  cen 
tred,  - 

This  prohibits  the  cry  of  the  nerves,  the  weak  lamentation 

Shaming  my  song:  for  I  know  whence   cometh   its   lan 
guishing  burden. 

Impotent   all   I   have   dreamed,  — and  the  calmer  vision 
assures  me 

Such  were  barren,  and  vapid  the  taste  of  joy  that  is  skin- 
deep. 

Better   the   nest   than   the   wandering   wing,    the    loving  ( 

possession, 

(  Intimate,    ever-renewed,    than    the    circle    of    shallower^ 
changes. 


AUGUST. 

i. 

iJEAD  is  the  air,  and  still!  the   leaves   of   the  locust 

and  walnut 
Lazily   hang   from    the   boughs,    inlaying   their   intricate 

outlines 
Rather  on  space  than  the  sky,  —  on  a  tideless  expansion 

of  slumber. 

Faintly  afar  in  the  depths  of  the  duskily  withering  grasses 
Katydids  chirp,   and   I   hear   the   monotonous   rattle  of 

crickets. 
Dead  is  the  air,  and  ah  !    the  breath  that  was  wont  to 

refresh  me 

Out  of  the  volumes  I  love,  the  heartful,  whispering  pages, 
Dies  on   the  type,  and   I  see  but  wearisome  characters 

only. 
Therefore  be  still,  thou  yearning  voice  from  the  garden  in 

Jena,— 


AUGUST.  21 

Still,  thou  answering  voice  from  the  park-side  cottage  in 
Weimar,  — 

Still,  sentimental  echo  from  chambers  of  office  in  Dres 
den,  — 

Ye,  and  the  feebler  and  farther  voices  that  sound  in  the 
pauses ! 

Each  and  all  to  the  shelves  I  return  ;  for  vain  is  your 
commerce 

Now,  when  the  world  and  the  brain  are  numb  in  the  torpor 
of  August. 

II. 

Over  the  tasselled  corn,  and  fields  of  the  twice-blossomed 

clover, 
Dimly   the   hills    recede    in    the    reek    of    the    colorless 

hazes : 
Dull   and   lustreless,   now,   the   burnished   green   of   the 

woodlands ; 
Leaves  of  blackberry  briers  are  bronzed  and  besprinkled 

with  copper  ; 
Weeds  in  the  unmown  meadows  are  blossoming  purple 

and  yellow, 
Roughly  entwined,  a  wreath  for  the  tan  and  wrinkles  of 

Summer. 


22  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Where  shall  I  turn  ?     What  path  attracts  the  indifferent 

footstep, 
Eager  no  more  as  in  June,  nor  lifted  with  wings  as  in 

May-time  ? 
Whitherward  look  for  a  goal,  when  buds  have  exhausted 

their  promise, 
Harvests  are  reaped,  and  grapes  and  berries  are  waiting 

for  Autumn  ? 
Wander,  my  feet,  as  ye  list !     I  am  careless,  to-day,  to 

direct  you. 
Take,  here,  the  path  by  the  pines,  the  russet  carpet  of 

needles 
Stretching  from  wood  to  wood,  and  hidden  from  sight  by 

the  orchard  ! 
Here,  in  the  sedge  of  the  slope,  the  centuary,  pink  as  a 

sea-shell, 
Opens  her  stars  all  at  once,  and  with  finer  than  tropical 

spices 
Sweetens  the  season's  drouth,  the  censer  of  fields  that  are 

sterile. 
Now,  from  the  height  of  the  grove,  between  the  irregular 

tree-trunks, 
Over  the  falling  fields  and  the  meadowy  curves  of  the 

valley, 


AUGUST.  23 

Glimmer  the  peaceful  farms,  the  mossy  roofs  of  the  houses, 
Gables  gray  of  the  neighboring  barns,  and  gleams  of  the 

highway 
Climbing  the  ridges  beyond  to  dip  in  the  dream  of  a  forest. 


III. 

Ah,  forsaking  the  shade,  and  slowly  crushing  the  stubble, 

Parting  the  viscous  roseate  stems  and  the  keen  penny 
royal, 

Rises  a  different  scene,  suggestion  of  heat  and  of  still 
ness, — 

Heat  "as  intense  and  stillness  as  dumb,  the  immaculate 
ether's 

Hush  when  it  vaults  the  waveless  Mediterranean  sea-floor; 

Golden  the  hills  of  Cos,  with  pencilled  cerulean  shadows; 

Phantoms  of  Carian  shores  that  are  painted  and  fade  in 
the  distance ; 

Patmos  behind,  and  westward  the  flushed  Ariadnean 
Naxos,  — 

Once  as  I  saw  them  sleeping,  drugged  by  the  poppy  of 
Summer. 

There,  indeed,  was  the  air,  as  with  floating  stars  of  the 
thistle 


24  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Filled  with  impalpable  forms,  regrets,  possibilities,  long 
ings, 

Beauty  that  was  and  was  not,  and  Life  that  was  rhythmic 
and  joyous, 

So  that  the  sun-baked  clay  the  peasant  took  for  his  wine- 
jars 

Brighter  than  gold  I  thought,  and  the  red  acidity  nectar. 

Here,  at  my  feet,  the  clay  is  clay  and  a  nuisance  the 
stubble, 

Flaring  St-John's-wort,  milk-weed,  and  coarse,  unpoetical 
mullein  ;  — 

Yet,   were   it   not   for   the   poets,   say,    is   the    asphodel 

fairer  ? 

Were  not  the  mullein  as  dear,  had  Theocritus  sung  it,  or 
Bion  ? 

Yea,  but  they  did  not ;  and  we,  whose  fancy's  tenderest 

tendrils 
Shoot  unsupported,  and  wither,  for  want  of  a  Past  we  can 

cling  to, 
We,  so  starved  in  the  Present,  so  weary  of  singing  the 

Future,  — 

What  is  't  to  us,  if,  haply,  a  score  of  centuries  later, 
Milk-weed  inspires  Patagonian  tourists,  and  mulleins  are 

classic? 


AUGUST.  25 

IV. 

Idly    balancing    fortunes,    feeling    the    spite    of    them, 

maybe,  — 

For  the  little  withheld  outweighs  the  much  that  is  given, — 
Feeling  the  pang  of  the  brain,  the  endless,  unquenchable 

yearning 
Born  of  the  knowledge  of  Beauty,  not  to  be  shared  or 

imparted, 
Slowly  I  stray,  and  drop  by  degrees  to  the  thickets  of 

alder 

Fringing  a  couch  of  the  stream,  a  basin  of  watery  slumber. 
Broken,  it  seems  ;    for  the  splash  and  the  drip  and  the 

bubbles  betoken 
What  ?  —  the  bath  of  a  nymph,  the  bashful  strife  of  a 

Hylas  ? 

Broad  is  the  back,  and  bent  from  an  un-Olympian  stoop 
ing* 
Narrow  the  loins  and  firm,  the  white  of  the  thighs  and 

the  shoulders 
Changing  to  reddest  and  toughest  of  tan  at  the  knees  and 

the  elbows. 

Is  it  a  faun?  He  sees  me,  nor  cares  to  hide  in  the  thickets. 
Faun  of  the  bog  is  he,  a  sylvan  creature  of  Galway 
2 


26  HOME   PASTORALS. 

Come  from  the  ditch  below,  to  cleanse  him  of  sweat  and 

cf  muck-stain  ; 
Willing  to  give  me  speech,  as,  naked,  he  stands  in  the 

shallows. 
Something  of  coarse,  uncouth,  barbaric,  he  leaves  on  the 

bank  there ; 
Something  of  primitive  human  fairness  cometh  to  clothe 

him. 
Were  he  not  bent  with  the  pick,  but  straightened  from 

reaching  the  bunches 

Hung  from  the  mulberry  branches,  —  heard  he  the  bac 
chanal  cymbals, 

Took  from  the  sun  an  even  gold  on  the  web  of  his  muscles, 
Knew  the  bloom  of  his  stunted  bud  of  delight  of  the 

senses, — 
Then  as  faun  or  shepherd  he  might  have  been  welcome  in 

marble. 

Yea,  but  he  is  not ;  and  I,  requiring  the  beautiful  balance, 
Music  of  life  in  the  body,  and  limbs  too  fair  to  be  hidden, 
Find,  indeed,  some  delicate  colors  and  possible  graces,  — 
Moral  hints  of  the  man  beneath  the  unsavory  garments, — 
Find  them,  and  sigh,  lamenting  the  law  reversed  of  the 

races 
Starting  the  world  afresh  on  the  basis  unlovely  of  Labor. 


AUGUST.  27 

V. 

Was  it  a  spite  of  fate  that  blew  me  hither,  an  exile, 

Still  unweanecl,  and  not  to  be  weaned,  from  the  milk  I  was 

born  to  ? 
Bitter  the  stranger's   bread   to   the   homesick,   hungering 

palate  ; 

Bitterer  still  to  the  soul  the  taste  of  the  food  that  is  foreign ! 
Yet  must  I  take  it,  yet  live,  and  somehow  seem  to  be 

healthy, 
Lest     my    neighbors,    perchance,    be     shocked     by    an 

uncomprehended 
Violent  clamor  for  that  which  I  crave  and  they  cannot 

supply  me,  — 

Hunger  unmeet  for  the  times,  anachronistical  passions, — 
Beauty  seeming  distorted  because  the  rule  is  distortion. 
Here  is  a  tangle  which,  now,  too  idle  am  I  to  unravel, 
Snared,  moreover,  by  bitter-sweet,  moon-seed,  and  riotous 

fox-grape, 

Meshing  the  thickets  \ procul,  0 procul,  unpractical  fancies! 
Verily,  thus  bewildering  myself  in  the  maze  of  aesthetic, 
Solveless   problems,    the   feet   were   wellnigh    heedlessly 

fettered. 
Thoughtless,   't  is   true,   I   relinquished   my  books ;    but 


28  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Wisely  was  said,  —  for  desperate  vacancy  prompted  the 

ramble, 
Memories  prolonged,   and  a  phantom  of  logic  urges  it 

onward. 

VI. 

Here  are  the  fields  again  !     The  soldierly  maize  in  tassel 
Stands  on  review,  and  carries  the  scabbarded  ears  in  its 

arm-pits. 

Rustling  I  part  the  ranks,— the  close,  engulfing  battalions 
Shaking  their  plumes  overhead,  —  and,  wholly  bewildered 

and  heated, 
Gain   the  top  of   the    ridge,  where  stands,  colossal,  the 

pin-oak. 

Yonder,  a  mile  away,  I  see  the  roofs  of  the  village, 

See    the   crouching   front   of    the   meeting-house   of   the 

Quakers, 

Oddly  conjoined  with  the  whittled  Presbyterian  steeple. 
Right  and  left  are  the  homes  of  the  slow,  conservative 

farmers, 
Loyal   people    and    true,  but,   now  that  the   battles   are 

over, 
Zealous  for  Temperance,  Peace,  and  the  Right  of  Suffrage 

for  Women. 


AUGUST.  29 

Orderly,   moral,   are   they,  —  at    least,   in   the   sense   of 

suppression  ; 

Given  to  preaching  of  rules,  inflexible  outlines  of  duty ; 
Seeing  the  sternness  of  life,  but,  alas  !    overlooking  its 

graces. 
Let  me  be  juster :  the  scattered  seeds  of  the  graces  are 

planted 
Widely  apart ;   but  the   trumpet-vine  on   the   porch  is  a 

token  ; 
Yea,   and   awake   and  alive   are   the  forces   of   love   and 

affection, 
Plastic  forces  that  work   from    the    tenderer  models  of 

beauty. 
Who  shall  dare  to  speak  of  the  possible?     Who  shall 

encounter 
Pity    and    wrath    and    reproach,    recalling    the    record 

immortal 
Left  by   the   races  when  Beauty  was  law  and  Joy  was 

religion  ? 
Who   to    the    Duty   in   drab    shall    bring1   the   garlanded 

Pleasure  ?  — 
Break  with  the  chant  of  the  gods,  the  gladsome  timbrels 

of  morning, 
Nasal,  monotonous  chorals,  sung  by  the  sad  congregation? 


30  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Better  it  were  to  sleep  with  the  owl,  to  house  with  the 

hornet, 
Than   to  conflict  with  the  satisfied  moral  sense  of  the 

people. 

VII. 

~~     N 

Nay,  but  let  me  be  just;  nor  speak  with  the  alien  language 
Born  of  my  blood  ;  for,  cradled  among  them,  I  know  them 

and  love  them. 
Was    it  my  fault,   if   a   strain   of   the   distant  and   dead 

generations 
Rose   in  my  being,   renewed,  and  made  me  other  than 

these  are  ? 
Purer,  perhaps,  their  habit  of  law  than  the  freedom  they 

shrink  from  ; 

So,  restricted  by  will,  a  little  indulgence  is  riot. 
They,   content   with   the   glow   of   a   carefully   tempered 

twilight, 
Measured    pulses    of    joy,    and    colorless   growth    of   the 

senses, 
Stand  aghast  at  my  dream  of  the  sun,  and  the  sound,  and 

the  splendor  ! 

Mine  it  is,  and  remains,  resenting  the  threat  of  suppres 
sion, 


AUGUST.  31 

Stubbornly  shaping  my  life,  and  feeding  with  fragments  its 

hunger. 

Drifted  from  Attican  hills  to  stray  on  a  Scythian  level, 
So  unto  me  it  appears,  —  unto   them  a  perversion  and 

scandal,  j~ 

VIII. 

Lo !  in   the  vapors,  the  sun,  colossal  and  crimson  and 

beamless, 
Touches  the  woodland;   fingers  of   air   prepare  for  the 

dew-fall. 

Life  is  fresher  and  sweeter,  insensibly  toning  to  softness 
Needs  and  desires  that  are  but  the  broidered  hem  of  its 

mantle, 

Not  the  texture  of  daily  use ;  and  the  soul  of  the  land 
scape, 
Breathing    of    justified    rest,    of    peace    developed    by 

patience, 
Lures  me  to  feel  the  exquisite  senses  that  come  from 

denial, 

Sharper  passion  of  Beauty  never  fulfilled  in  external 
Forms  or  conditions,  but  always  a  fugitive  has-been  or 

may-be. 
Bright  and  alive  r.s  a  want,  incarnate  it  dozes  and  fattens. 


32  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Thus,   in   aspiring,   I   reach   what   were   lost   in   the   idle 
possession ; 

Helped  by  the  laws  I  resist,  the  forces  that  daily  depress 

me ; 

Bearing  in  secreter  joy  a  luminous  life  in  my  bosom, 
Fair  as  the  stars  on  Cos,  the  moon  on  the  boscage   of 

Naxos ! 

Thus  the  skeleton  Hours  are  clothed  with  rosier  bodies: 
Thus  the  buried  Bacchanals  rise  unto  lustier  dances : 
Thus  the  neglected  god  returns  to  his  desolate  temple : 
Beauty,  thus  rethroned,  accepts  and  blesses  her  children  ! 


NOVEMBER. 

I. 

WRAPPED  in  his  sad-colored  cloak,  the  Day,  like  a 

Puritan,  standeth 
Stern    in    the    joyless    fields,     rebuking     the     lingering 

color,  — 
Dying    hectic    of    leaves    and    the    chilly    blue    of    the 

asters,  — 
Hearing,  perchance,  the  croak  of  a  crow  on  the  desolate 

tree-top, 
Breathing  the  reek  of  withered  weeds,  or  the  drifted  and 

sodden 
Splendors    of   woodland,   as  whoso   piously  groaneth  in 

spirit : 

"  Vanity,  verily  ;  yea,  it  is  vanity,  let  me  forsake  it ! 
Yea,  let  it  fade,  for  Life  is  the  empty  clash  of  a  cymbal, 
Joy   a   torch   in    the    hands   of    a    fool,    and    Beauty    a 

pitfall  !  " 


34  HOME  PASTORALS. 

II. 

Once,  I  remember,  when  years  had  the  long  duration  of 

ages, 
Came,  with  November,  despnir  ;  for  summer  had  vanished 

forever. 

Lover  of  light,  my  boyish  heart  as  a  lover's  was  jealous, 
Followed  forsaking  suns  and  felt  its  passion  rejected, 
Saw  but  Age  and    Death,  in    the  whole  wide  circle  of 

Nature 
Throned   forever;    and   hardly  yet   have  I    steadied   by 

knowledge 

o 

Faith  that  faltered  and  patience  that  was  but  a  weary 
submission. 

Though  to  the  right  and  left  I  hear  the  call  of  the  huskers 

Scattered  among  the  rustling  shocks,  and  the  cheerily 
whistled 

Lilt  of  an  old  plantation  tune  from  an  ebony  teamster, 

These  behold  no  more  than  the  regular  jog  of  a  mill- 
wheel 

Where,  unto  me,  there  is  possible  end  and  diviner 
beginning. 

Silent  are  now  the  flute  of  Spring  and  the  clarion  of 
Summer 


NOVEMBER.  35 

As   they   had    never   been   blown:    the    wail    of    a    dull 

Miserere 
Heavily    sweeps    the   woods,    and,    stifled,    dies    in    the 

valleys. 

Ill, 

Who   are   they  that  prate   of   the   sweet  consolation   of 

Nature  ? 
They  who  fly  from  the  city's  heat  for   a  month  to  the 

sea-shore, 
Drink  of  unsavory  springs,  or  camp  in  the  green  Adiron- 

dacks  ? 
They,  long  since,  have  left  with  their  samples  of  ferns  and 

of  algse, 

Memories  carefully  dried  and  somewhat  lacking  in  color, 
Gossip  of  tree  and  cliff  and  wave  and  modest  adventure, 
Such  as  a  graceful  sentiment  — not  too  earnest  — admits 

of, 
Heard  in  the  pause  of  a  dance  or  bridging  the  g~ps  of  a 

dinner. 

Nay,  but  I,  who  know  her,  exult  in  her  profligate  seasons, 
Turn    from    the    silence    of    men    to    her   fancied,    fond 

recognition, 
I  am  repelled  at  last  by  her  sad  and  cynical  humor. 


36  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Kinder,  cheerier  now,  were  the  pavements  crowded  with 

people, 

Walls  that  hide  the  sky,  and  the  endless  racket  of  busi 
ness. 

There  a  hope  in  something  lifts  and  enlivens  the  current, 
Face  seeth  face,   and    the    hearts  of  a  million,    beating 

together, 
Hidden  though  each  from  other,  at  least  are  outwardly 

nearer, 

Lending  the  life  of  all  to  the  one, — bestowing  and  taking, 
Weaving  a  common  web  of  strength  in  the  meshes  of 

contact, 
Close,  yet  never  impeded,   restrained,  yet  delighting  in 

freedom. 

There  the  soul,  secluded  in  self,  or  touching  its  fellow 
Only  with  horny  palms  that  hide   the   approach   of  the 

pulses, 

Driven  abroad,  discovers  the  secret  signs  of  its  kindred, 
Kisses  on  lips  unknown,  and  words  on  the  tongue  of  the 

stranger. 

Life  is  set  to  a  statelier  march,  a  grander  accordance 
Follows  its  multitudinous  steps  of  dance  and  of  battle  : 
Part  hath  each  in  the  music  ;  even  the  sacredest  whisper 
Findeth  a  soul  unafraid  and  an  ear  that  is  ready  to  listen. 


NOVEMBER.  „  37 

IV. 

Nature  ?  T  is  well  to  sing  of  the  glassy  Bandusian 
fountain,  « 

Shining  Ortygian  beaches,  or  flocks  on  the  meadows  of 
Enna, 

Linking  the  careless  life  with  the  careless  mood  of  the 
Mother. 

We,  afar  and  alone,  confronted  with  heavier  questions, 

Robbed  of  the  oaten  pipe  before  it  is  warm  in  our  fingers, 

Why  should  we  feign  a  faith  ?  —  why  crown  an  indifferent 
goddess  ? 

Under  the  gray,  monotonous  vault  what  carolling  song 
bird 

Hopes  for  an  echo  ?  Closer  and  lower  the  vapors  are 
folded  ; 

Sighing  shiver  the  woods,  though  drifted  leaves  are 
unrustled  ; 

Ghosts  of  the  grasses  that  fled  with  a  breath  and  floated 
in  sunshine 

Hang  unstirred  on  brier  and  fence  ;  for  a  new  desolation 

Comes  with  the  rain,  that,  chilly  and  quietly  creeping  at 
nightfall, 

Thence  for  many  a  day  shall  dismally  drizzle  and  darken. 


38  .        HOME  PASTORALS. 

V. 

"  See !  "  (methinks  I  hear  the  mechanical  routine  repeated,) 
"  Emblems  of  faith  in  the  folded  bud  and  the  seed  that  is 

sleeping !  " 
Knowledge,  not  Faith,  deduced  the  similitude  ;  how  shall 

an  emblem 

^Give  to  the  soul  the  steadfast  truth  that  alone  satisfies  it  ? 
Joy  of  the  Spring  I   can  feel,  but  not  the  preaching  of 

Autumn. 
Earth,  if  a  lesson  is  wrought  upon  each  of  thy  radiant 

pages, 
Give  us  the  words  that  sustain  us,  and  not  the  words  that 

discourage  ! 
Sceptic   art    thou    become,    the    breeder    of    doubt   and 

confusion, 

Powerless  vassal  of  Fate,  assuming  a  meek  resignation,      * 
Yielding  the  forces  that  moved  in  thy  life  and  made  it 

triumphant ! 

VI. 

Now,    as    my   circle    of    home    is    slowly   swallowed    in 

darkness, 
As  with  the  moan  of  winds  the  rain  is  drearily  falling,  — 


NOVEMBER.  39 

Hopes  that  drew  as  the  sun  and  aims  that  stood  as  the 

pole-star 
Fading  aloof  from  my  life  as  though  it  never  had  known 

them,  — 
Where,    when    the    wont    is    deranged,   shall    I    find    a 

permanent   foothold  ? 
Stripped   of   the   rags  of   Time    I    see  the  form   of   my 

being, 

Born  of  all  that  ever  has  been,  and  haughtily  reaching 
Forward  to  all  that  comes,  —  yet  certain,  this  moment,  of 

nothing. 
Chide  or  condemn  as  ye  may,  the  truant  and  mutinous 

spirit 
Turns    on   itself,    and    forces    release    from    its    holiest 

habit ; 
Soars   where   the    suns    are    sprinkled    in    cold,  illimited 

darkness, 

Peoples  the  spheres  with  far  diviner  forms  of  existence, 
Questions,  conjectures  at  will ;  for  Earth  and  its  creeds 

are  forgotten. 
Thousands   of   aeons  it   gathers,  yet    scarce  its  feet  are 

supported ; 
Dumb  is  the  universe  unto  the  secrets  of  Whence  ?  and  of 

W7hither? 


40  HO.\fE  PASTORALS. 

So,  as    a    dove  through   the    summits    of    ether   falling 

exhausted, 
Under  it  yawns  the  blank  of  an  infinite  Something  —  or 

Nothing ! 

VII. 

Let  me  indulge  in  the  doubt,  for  this   is   the   token  of 

(s^ 
freedomj 

This    is   all   that   is   safe   from    hands   that  would    fain 

intermeddle, 
Thrusting  their  worn  phylacteries  over  the  eyes  that  are 

seeking 
Truth  as  it  shines  in  the  sky,  not  truth  as  it  smokes  in 

their  lantern. 

Ah,  shall  I  venture  alone  beyond  the  limits  they  set  us, 
Bearing  the  spark  within  till  a  breath  of  the  Deity  fan  it 
Into  an  upward-pointing  flame? —  and,  forever  unquiet, 
Nearer  through  error  advance,  and  nearer  through  igno 
rant  yearning? 
Yes,  it  must  be  :  the  soul  from  the  soul  cannot  hide  or 

diminish 

Aught  of  its  essence  :  here  the  duplicate  nature  is  ended  : 
Here  the  illusions  recede,.at  man's  unassailable  centre, 
And  the  nearness  and  fa/ness  of  God  are  all  that  is  left 
him. 


NOVEMBER.  41 

VIII. 

Lo  !  as  I  muse,  there  come  on  the  lonely  darkness  and 

silence 
Gleams  like  those  of  the  sun  that  reach  his   uttermost 

planet, 
Inwardly  dawning  ;  and  faint  and  sweet  as  the  voices  of 

waters 
Borne  from  a  sleeping  mountain-vale  on  a  breeze  of  the 

midnight, 
Falls  a  message  of  cheer  :  "  Be  calm,  for  to  doubt  is  to 

seek  whom 
None  can  escape,   and  the  soul  is  dulled  with  an  idle 

acceptance. 
Crying,   questioning,   stumbling   in    gloom,   thy.  pathway 

ascencleth ; 
They  with    the    folded    hands    at    the  last   relapse   into 

strangers. 
Over  thy  head,  behold  !    the  wing  with   its  measureless 

shadow 
Spread   against  the    light,  is  the  wing  of   the   Angel   of 

Unfaith, 
Chosen   of   God   to   shield   the  eyes  of    men   frcm  His 

glory. 


42  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Thus  through  mellower  twilights  of  doubt  thou  climbest 

undazzled, 

Mornward  ever  directed,  and  even  in  wandering  guided. 
God  is  patient  of  souls  that  reach  through  an  endless 

creation, 
So  but  His  shadow  be  seen,  but  heard  the  trail  of  His 

mantle  !  " 

IX. 

Who  is  alone  in  this  ?  The  elder  brothers,  immortal, 
Leaned  o'er  the  selfsame  void  and  rose  to  the  same 

consolation, 

Human  therein  as  we,  however  diviner  their  message. 
Even  as  the  liquid  soul  of  summer,  pent  in  the  flagon, 
Waits  in  the  darksome  vault  till  we  crave  its  odor  and 

sunshine, 

So  in  the  Past  the  words  of  life,  the  voices  eternal. 
Freedom  like  theirs  we  claim,  yet  lovingly  guard  in  the 

freedom 
Sympathies  due   to   the   time   and   help   to    the   limited 

effort ; 

Thus  with  double  arms  embracing  our  duplicate  being, 
Setting  a  foot  in  either  world,  we  stand  as  the  Masters. 
Ah,  but  who  can  arise  so  far,  except  in  his  longing? 


NOVEMBER.  43 

Give  me  thy  hand !  —  the  soft  and  quickening  life  of  thy 

pulses 

Spans  the  slackened  spirit  and  lifts  the  eyelids  of  Fancy : 
Doubt  is  of  loneliness  born,  belief  companions  the  lover. 
Ever  from  thee,  as  once  from  youth's  superfluous  forces, 
Courage  and  hope  are  renewed,  the  endless  future  created. 
Out  of  the  season's  hollow  the  sunken  sun  shall  be  lifted, 
Bringing  faith  in  his  beams,   the  green  resurrection  of 

Easter, 
After  the  robes  of  death  by  the  angels  of  air  have  been 

scattered, 
Climbing  the  heights  of  heaven,  to  stand  supreme  at  his 

solstice ! 


L'ENVOI. 

I. 

JM. AY-TIME    and    August,   November,   and    over    the 

winter  to  May-time, 

Year  after  year,  or  shaken  by  nearness  of  imminent  battle, 
Or  as  remote  from  the  stir  as  an  isle  of  the  sleepy  Pacific, 
Here,  at  least,  I  have  tasted  peace  in  the  pauses  of  labor, 
Rest  as  of  sleep,  the  gradual  growth  of  deliberate  Nature. 
Here,  escaped  from  the  conflict  of  taste,  the  confusion  of 

voices 
Heard  in   a  land  where  the  form   of   Art   abides   as  a 

stranger, 

Come  to  me  definite  hopes  and  clearer  possible  duties, 
Faith  in  the  steadfast  service,  content  with  tardy  achieve 
ment. 
Here,  in  men,   I    have  found  the  elements  working  as 

elsewhere, 
Ever  betraying  the  surge  and  swell  of  invisible  currents, 


L  'ENVOI.  45 

Which,  from  beneath,  from  the  deepest  bases  of  thought 

in  the  people, 
Press,   and   heavy  with  change,   and    filled  with   visions 

unspoken, 
Bear  us  onward  to  shape  the  formless  face  of  the  Future. 


II. 

Now,  if  the  tree  I  planted  for  mine  must  shadow  another's, 
If  the  uncounted  tender  memories,  sown  with  the  seasons, 
Filling  the  webs  of  ivy,  the  grove,  the  terrace  of  roses, 
Clothing  the  lawn  with  unwithering  green,  the  orchard 

with  blossoms, 

Singing  a  finer  song  to  the  exquisite  motion  of  waters, 
Breathing  profounder  calm  from  the  dark  Dodonian  oak- 
trees, 
Now  must  be  lost,  till,  haply,  the  hearts  of  others  renew 

them,  — 
Yet  we  have  had  and  enjoyed,  we  have  and  enjoy  them 

forever. 
Drops  from   the  bough   the  fruit  that  here  was  sunnily 

ripened : 

Other  will  grow  as  well  on  the  westward  slope  of  the 
garden. 


46  HOME  PASTORALS. 

Sorrowing  not,  nor  driven  forth  by  the  sword  of  an  angel, 
Nay,  but  borne  by  a  fuller  tide  as  a  ship  from  the  harbor, 
Slowly  out  of  our  eyes  the  pastoral  bliss  of  the  landscape 
Fades,  and  is  dim,  and  sinks  below  the  rim  of  the  ocean.     - 


III. 

Sorrowing  not,  I  have  said  :  with  thee  was  the  ceasing  of 
sorrow. 

Hope  from  thy  lips  I  have  drawn,  and  subtler  strength 
from  thy  spirit, 

Sharer  of  dream  and  of  deed,  inflexible  conscience  of 
Beauty ! 

Though  as  a  Grace  thou  art  dear,  as  a  guardian  Muse 
thou  art  earnest, 

Walking  with  purer  feet  the  paths  of  song  that  I  venture, 

Side  by  side,  unwearied,  in  cheerful,  encouraging  silence. 

Not  thy  constant  woman's  heart  alone  I  have  wedded  ; 

One  are  we  made  in  patience  and  faith  and  high  aspi 
ration. 

Thus,  at  last,  the  light  of  the  fortunate  age  is  recovered  : 

Thus,  wherever  we  wander,  the  shrine  and  the  oracle 
follow ! 


BALLADS. 


BALLADS. 


THE     HOLLY-TREE. 

I. 

THE  corn  was  warm  in  the  ground,  the  fences  were 

mended  and  made, 

And  the  garden-beds,  as  smooth  as  a  counterpane  is  laid, 
Were  dotted  and  striped  with  green  where  thef  peas  and 

radishes  grew, 
With  elecampane  at  the  foot,  and  comfrey,  and  sage,  and 

rue. 

II. 

The  work  was  done  on  the  farm,  't  was  orderly  every 
where, 
And  comfort  smiled  from  the  earth,  and  rest  was  felt  in 

the  air. 

When  a  Saturday  afternoon  at  such  a  time  comes  round, 
The  farmer's  fancies   grow,   as   grows  the   grain  in   his 
*  ground. 

3  D 


50  EALLADS. 

Ill, 

'T  was  so  with  Gabriel  Parke :  he  stood  by  the  holly-tree 
That  came,  in  the  time  of  Penn,  with  his  fathers  over  the 

sea: 
A  hundred  and  eighty  years  it  had  grown  where  it  first 

was  set, 
And   the   thorny  leaves  were  thick  and   the  trunk  was 

sturdy  yet. 

IV. 

From  the  knoll  where  stood  the  house  the  fair  fields 
pleasantly  rolled 

To  dells  where  the  laurels  hung,  and  meadows  of  butter 
cup-gold  : 

He  looked  on  them  all  by  turns,  with  joy  in  his  acres 
free, 

But  ever  his  thoughts  came  back  to  the  tale  of  the  holly- 
tree. 

V. 

In  beautiful  Warwickshire,  beside  the  Avon  stream, 
John  Parke,  in  his  English  home,  had  dreamed  a  singular 
dream. 


THE  HOLLY-TREE.  5  I 

He  went  with  a  sorrowful  heart,  for  love  of  a  bashful 

maid, 
And  a  vision   came   as   he   slept   one   day  in  a  holly's 

shade. 

VI. 

An  angel  sat  in  the  boughs,  and  showed  him  a  goodly 

land, 
With   hills   that  fell   to  a  brook,   and  forests  on  either 

hand, 
And   said :   "  Thou  shalt  wed   thy  love,    and   this  shall 

belong  to  you ; 
For  the  earth  has  ever  a  home  for  a  tender  heart  and 

true ! " 

VII. 

Even  so  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  angel  promised  then : 
He  wedded  and  wandered  forth  with  the  earliest  friends 

of  Penn, 
And  the  home  foreshown  he  found,  with  all  that  a  home 

endears,  — 
A  nest  of  plenty  and  peace,  for  a  hundred  and  eighty 

years ! 


52  BALLADS. 

VIII. 

In  beautiful  Warwickshire  the  life  of  the  two  began,  — 
A  slip  of  the  tree  of  the  dream,  a  far-off  sire  of  the  man  ; 
And  it  seemed  to  Gabriel  Parke,  as  the  leaves  above  him 

stirred, 
That  the  secret  dream  of  his  heart  the  soul  of  the  holly 

heard. 

IX. 

Of  Patience  Phillips  he  thought :  she,  too,  was  a  bashful 

maid : 
The  blue  of  her  eyes  was  hid  by  the  eyelash's  golden 

shade ; 
But  well  that  she  could  not  hide  the  cheeks  that  were  fair 

to  see 
As  the  pink  of  an  apple-bud,  ere  the  blossom  snows  the 

tree! 


X. 


Ah!    how  had   the    English   Parke   to   the   English  girl 

betrayed, 
Save  a  dream  had  helped  his  heart,  the  love  that  makes 

afraid  ?  — 


THE  HOLLY-TREE.  53 

That  seemed  to  smother  his  voice,  when  his  blood  so 

sweetly  ran, 
And  the  baby  heart  lay  weak  in  the  rugged  breast  of  the 

man  ? 

XL 

His  glance  came  back  from  the  hills  and  back  from  the 
laurel  glen, 

And  fell  on  the  grass  at  his  feet,  where  clucked  a  mother- 
hen, 

With  a  brood  of  tottering  chicks,  that  followed  as  best 
they  might ; 

But  one  was  trodden  and  lame,  and  drooped  in  a  woful 
plight. 

XII. 

He  lifted  up  from  the  grass  the  feeble,  chittering  thing, 
And  warmed    its   breast  at   his  lips,   and    smoothed    its 

stumpy  wing, 
When,  lo  !  at  his  side  a  voice  :  "  Is  it  hurt  ?  "  was  all  she 

said; 
But  the  eyes  of  both  were  shy,  and  the  cheeks  of  both 

were  red. 


54  BALLADS. 

XIII. 

She   took   from   his   hand   the  chick,   and   fondled    and 

soothed  it  then, 
While,  knowing  that  good  was  meant,  cheerfully  clucked 

the  hen ; 
And  the  tongues  of  the  two  were  loosed  :  there  seemed  a 

wonderful  charm 
In  talk  of  the  hatching  fowls  and  spring-work  done  on  the 

farm. 

XIV. 

But  Gabriel  saw  that  her  eyes  were  drawn  to  the  holly- 
tree  : 

"  Have  you  heard,"  he  said,  "  how  it  came  with  the  family 
over  the  sea  ?  " 

He  told  the  story  again,  though  he  knew  she  knew  it  well, 

And  a  spark  of  hope,  as  he  spake,  like  fire  in  his  bosom 
fell. 

XV. 

"  I  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream,  here,  under  the  tree,  just 

now," 
He  said;   and  Patience  felt  the  warmth  of  his  eyes  on 

her  brow  : 


THE  HOLLY-TREE.  55 

"  I  dreamed,  like  the  English  Parke  ;  already  the  farm  I 

own, 
But  the  rest  of   the  dream  is  best  —  the  land  is  little, 

alone." 

XVI. 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  the  maid  :  her  flushing  cheek 

was  bent, 
And,  under  her  chin,  the  chick  was   cheeping  its  warm 

content ; 
But   naught  she    answered  —  then  he  :    "  O  Patience  !  I 

thought  of  you ! 
Tell  me  you  take  the  dream,  and  help  me  to  make  it 

true  ! " 

XVII. 

The   mother  looked  from   the  house,  concealed   by  the 

window-pane, 
And  she  felt  that  the  holly's  spell  had  fallen  upon  the 

twain  ; 
She  guessed  from  Gabriel's  face  what  the  words  he  had 

spoken  were, 
And  blushed  in  the  maiden's  stead,  as  if  they  were  spoken 

to  her. 


56  BALLADS. 

XVIII. 

She  blushed,  and  she  turned  away,  ere  the  trembling  man 

and  maid 

Silently  hand  in  hand  had  kissed  in  the  holly's  shade, 
And  Patience  whispered  at  last,  her  sweet  eyes  dim  with 

dew  : 
"  O  Gabriel  !  could  you  dream  as  much  as  I  Ve  dreamed 

of  you  ?  " 

XIX. 

The  mother  said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  in  her  straight  old 

chair : 

"  He  's  got  the  pick  of  the  flock,  so  tidy  and  kind  and  fair! 
At  first  I  shall  find  it  hard,  to  sit  and  be  still,  and  see 
How  the  house  is  kept  to  rights  by  somebody  else  than 

me. 

XX. 

"  But  the  home  must  be  theirs  alone  :  I  '11  do  by  her,  if  I 

can, 

As  Gabriel's  grandmother  did,  when  I  as  a  wife  began  : 
So  good  and  faithful  he  's  been,  from  the  hour  when  I 

gave  him  life, 
He  shall  master  be  in  the  house,  and  mistress  shall  be  his 

wife !  " 


JOHN    REED. 

THERE  's  a  mist  on  the  meadow  below;  the  herring- 
frogs  chirp  and  cry  ; 

It 's  chill  when  the  sun  is  down,  and  the  sod  is  not  yet 
dry : 

The  world  is  a  lonely  place,  it  seems,  and  I  don't  know 
why. 

I  see,  as  I  lean  on  the  fence,  how  wearily  trudges  Dan 
With  the  feel  of  the  spring  in  his  bones,  like  a  weak  and 

elderly  man  ; 
I  Ve  had  it  a  many  a  time,  but  we  must  work  when  we 

can. 

But  day  after  day  to  toil,  and  ever  from  sun  to  sun, 
Though   up    to   the  season's   front    and   nothing   be  left 

undone, 
Is  ending  at  twelve  like  a  clock,  and  beginning  again  at 

one. 

3* 


5$  BALLADS. 

The  frogs  make  a  sorrowful  noise,  and  yet  it  's  the  time 

they  mate  ; 
There  's  something  comes  with  the  spring,  a  lightness  or 

else  a  weight  ; 
There  's  something  comes  with  the  spring,  and  it  seems  to 

me  it  's  fate. 

It  's  the  hankering  after  a  life  that  you  never  have  learned 

to  know  ; 
It  's  the  discontent  with  a  life  that  is  always  thus  and 

so; 
It  's  the  wondering  what  we  are,  and  where  we  are  going 


My  life  is  lucky  enough,  I  fancy,  to  most  men's  eyes, 
For  the  more  a  family  grows,  the  oftener  some  one  dies, 
And  it  's  now  run  on  so  long,  it  could  n't  be  otherwise. 

And  Sister  Jane  and  myself,  we  have  learned   to  claim 

and  yield  ; 
She  rules  in  the  house  at  will,  and   I   in   the  barn   and 

field, 
So,  nigh  upon  thirty  years!  —  as  if  written   and  signed 

and  sealed. 


JOHN  REED.  59 

I  could  n't  change  if  I  would  ;  I  Ve  lost  the  how  and  the 

when ; 
One  day  my  time  will  be  up,  and  Jane  be  the  mistress 

then, 
For  single  women  are  tough  and  live  down  the  single 

men. 

She  kept  me  so  to  herself,  she  was  always  the  stronger 

hand, 
And  my  lot  showed  well  enough,  when  I  looked  around 

in  the  land  ; 
But   I  'm   tired   and   sore   at   heart,    and   I    don't   quite 

understand. 

I  wonder  how  it  had  been  if  I  'd  taken  what  others  need, 
The  plague,  they  say,  of  a  wife,  the  care  of  a  younger 

breed  ? 
If  Edith  Pleasanton  now  were  with  me  as  Edith  Reed  ? 

Suppose  that  a  son  well  grown  were  there  in  the  place 

of  Dan, 
And  I  felt  myself  in  him,  as  I  was  when  my  work 

began  ? 
I  should  feel  no  older,  sure,  and  certainly  more  a  man ! 


60  BALLADS. 

A  daughter,  besides,  in  the  house ;  nay,  let  there  be  two 

or  three ! 

We  never  can  overdo  the  luck  that  can  never  be, 
And  what  has  come  to  the  most  might  also  have  come 

to  me. 

I  Ve  thought,  when   a  neighbor's  wife  or  his  child  was 

carried  away, 
That   to   have   no   loss  was  a  gain  ;  but   now,  —  I  can 

hardly  say ; 
He  seems  to  possess  them  still,  under  the  ridges  of  clay. 

And  share  and  share  in  a  life  is,  somehow,  a  different  thing 
From  property  held  by  deed,  and  the  riches  that  oft  take 

wing ; 
I  feel  so  close  in  the  breast !  —  I  think  it  must  be  the 

spring. 

I  'm  dfying  up  like  a  brook  when  the  woods  have  been 

cleared  around  ; 
You  're  sure  it  must  always  run,  you  are  used  to  the  sight 

and  sound, 
But   it  shrinks   till   there  's  only  left   a  stony  rut  in  the 

ground. 


JOHN  REED.  l 

There  's  nothing  to  do  but  take  the  clays  as  they  come 

and  go, 
And  not  to   worry  with  thoughts   that  nobody  likes    to 

show, 
For  people   so  seldom   talk  of  the  things  they  want  to 

know. 

There  's    times  when    the  way  is    plain,   and  everything 

nearly  right, 
And   then,   of  a  sudden,  you  stand   like   a  man  with   a 

clouded  sight : 
A  bush  seems  often  a  beast,  in  the  dusk  of  the  falling 

night. 

I  must  move ;  my  joints  are  stiff ;  the  weather  is  breed 
ing  rain, 

And  Dan  is  hurrying  on  with  his  plough-team  up  the  lane. 
I  '11  £0  to  the  village-store  ;  I  'd  rather  not  talk  with  Jane. 


THE   OLD   PENNSYLVANIA   FARMER. 

I. 

WELL  —  well!  this  is  a  comfort,  now  —  the  air  is  mild 

as  May, 

And  yet  't  is  March  the  twentieth,  or  twenty-first,  to-day : 
And  Reuben  ploughs  the  hill  for  corn  ;  I  thought  it  would 

be  tough, 
But  now  I  see  the  furrows  turned,  I  guess  it 's  dry  enough. 


II. 

I  don't  half  live,  penned  up  in  doors ;  a  stove  's  not  like 

the  sun. 
When  I  can't  see  how  things  go  on,  I  fear  they  're  badly 

done: 
I  might  have  farmed  till  now,  I  think  —  one's  family  is 

so  queer  — 
As  if  a  man  can't  oversee  who  's  in  his  eightieth  year ! 


THE   OLD  PENNSYLVANIA   FARMER.        63 

I"- 

Father,  I  mind,  was  eighty-five  before  he  gave  up  his ; 
But  he  was  dim-  o'  sight,  and  crippled  with  the  rheumatiz. 
I  followed  in  the  old,  steady  way,  so  he  was  satisfied ; 
But  Reuben  likes  new-fangled   things  and  ways  I  can't 
abide. 

IV. 
I  'm  glad  I  built  this  southern  porch  ;  my  chair  seems 

easier  here : 

I  have  n't  seen  as  fine  a  spring  this  five  and  twenty  year ! 
And  how  the  time  goes  round  so  quick  !  —  a  week,  I  would 

have  sworn, 
Since  they  were  husking  on  the  flat,  and  now  they  plough 

for  corn  ! 

I  v.  .        - 

When  I  was  young,  time  had  for  me  a  lazy  ox's  pace, 
But  now  it 's  like  a  blooded  horse,  that  means  to  win  the 

race. 
And  yet   I   can't   fill   out   my  days,   I  tire  myself  with 

naught ; 
I  'd  rather  use  my  legs  and  hands  than  plague  my  head 

with  thought. 


64  BALLADS. 

VI. 

There  's  Marshall,  too,  I  see  from  here :  he  and  his  boys 

begin. 
Why  don't  they  take   the   lower  field?  that   one   is  poor 

and  thin. 

A  coat  of  lime  it  ought  to  have,  but  they  're  a  doless  set : 
They  think  swamp-mud  's  as  good,  but  we  shall  see  what 

corn  they  get ! 

VII. 

Across  the  level,  Brown's  new  place  begins  to  make  a 

show ; 
I  thought  he  'd  have  to  wait  for  trees,  but,  bless  me,  how 

they  grow  ! 
They  say  it 's  fine  —  two  acres  filled  with  evergreens  and 

things; 
But   so   much   land  !    it  worries   me,  for   not    a   cent   it 

brings. 

VIII. 

He  has  the  right,  I  don't  deny,  to  please  himself  that 

way, 
But  't  is  a  bad  example  set,  and  leads  young  folks  astray : 


THE   OLD   PENNSYLVANIA    FARMER.        65 

Book-learning  gets  the  upper-hand  and  work  is  slow  and 

, 
slack, 

And  they  that  come  long  after  us  will  find  things  gone  to 
wrack. 

IX. 

Now  Reuben  's  on  the  hither  side,  his  team  comes  back 

again  ; 
I   know  how  deep  he  sets  the  share,  I  see  the  horses 

strain  : 
I  had  that  field  so  clean  of  stones,  but  he  must  plough  so 

deep, 
He  '11  have  it  like  a  turnpike  soon,  and  scarcely  fit  for 

sheep. 

X. 

If  father  lived,  I'd  like  to  know  what  he  would  say  to 
these 

New  notions  of  the  younger  men,  who  farm  by  chem 
istries  : 

There  's  different  stock  and  other  grass ;  there  's  patent 
plough  and  cart  — 

Five  hundred  dollars  for  a  bull !  it  would  have  broke  his 
heart. 

E 


66  BALLADS. 

XI. 

The  maples  must  be  putting  out :  I  see  a  something  red 
Down  yonder  where  the  clearing  laps  across  the  meadow's 

head. 
Swamp-cabbage  grows  beside  the  run  ;  the  green  is  good 

to  see, 

But  wheat  's  the  color,  after  all,  that  cheers  and  'livens 
me. 

XII. 

They  think  I  have  an  easy  time,  no  need  to  worry  now  — 
Sit  in  the  porch  all  clay  and  watch  them  mow,  and  sow, 

and  plough  : 

Sleep  in  the  summer  in  the  shade,  in  winter  in  the  sun  — 
I  'd  rather  do  the  thing  myself,  and  know  just  how  it 's 

done  ! 

XIII. 

Well  —  I  suppose  I  'm  old,  and  yet  't  is  not  so  long  ago 
When  Reuben  spread  the  swath  to  dry,  and  Jesse  learned 

to  mow, 
And  William  raked,  and  Israel  hoed,  and  Joseph  pitched 

with  me : 
But  such  a  man  as  I  was  then  my  boys  will  never  be ! 


THE   OLD  PENNSYLVANIA   FARMER.        67 

XIV. 

I  don't  mind  William's   hankering  for  lectures   and  for 

books  ; 
He   never  had  a  farming  knack  —  you'd   see   it  in  his 

looks  ; 

But  handsome  is  that  handsome  does,  and  he  is  well  to  do: 
T  would  ease  my  mind  if  I  could  say  the  same  of  Jesse, 

too. 

XV. 

There  's  one  black  sheep  in  every  flock,  so  there  must  be 

in  mine. 

But  I  was  wrong  that  second  time  his  bond  to  undersign  : 
It's  less  than  what  his  share  will  be  —  but  there's  the 

interest ! 
In  ten  years  more   I   might  have  had  two  thousand  to 

invest. 

XVI. 

There  's  no  use  thinking  of  it  now,  and  yet  it  makes  me 

sore  ; 
The  way  I  've  slaved  and  saved,  I  ought  to  count  a  little 

more. 


68  BALLADS. 

I  never  lost  a  foot  of  land,  and  that 's  a  comfort,  sure, 
And  if  they  do  not  call  me  rich,  they  cannot  call  me  poor. 


XVII. 

Well,  well  !  ten  thousand  times  I  Ve  thought  the  things 
I  'm  thinking  now  ; 

I  Ve  thought  them  in  the  harvest-field  and  in  the  clover- 
mow  ; 

And  often  I  get  tired  of  them,  and  wish  I  'd  something 
new  — 

But  this  is  all  I  Ve  had  and  known  ;  so  what 's  a  man  to 
do? 

XVIII. 

'T  is  like  my  time  is  nearly  out,  of  that  I  'm  not  afraid  ; 
I  never  cheated  any  man,  and  all  my  debts  are  paid. 
They  call  it  rest  that  we  shall  have,  but  work  would  do  no 

harm  ; 
There  can't  be  rivers  there,  and  fields,  without  some  sort 

o'  farm  ! 


NAPOLEON    AT    GOT  HA. 

I. 

WE  walk  amid  the  currents  of  actions  left  undone, 
The  germs  of  deeds  that  wither,  before  they  see  the  sun. 
For  every  sentence  uttered,  a  million  more  are  dumb : 
Men's  lives  are  chains  of  chances,  and  History  their  sum. 


II. 

Not  he,  the  Syracusan,  but  each  impurpled  lord 
Must  eat  his  banquet  under  the  hair-suspended  sword  ; 
And  one  swift  breath  of  silence  may  fix  or  change  the  fate 
Of  him  whose  force  is  building  the  fabric  of  a  state. 


III. 

Where  o'er  the  windy  uplands  the  slated  turrets  shine, 
Duke  August  ruled  at  Gotha,  in  Castle  Friedenstein,  — 


70  BALLADS. 

A   handsome   prince  and  courtly,  of  light   and   shallow 

heart, 
No  better  than  he  should  be,  but  with  a  taste  for  Art. 


IV. 

The  fight  was  fought  at  Jena,  eclipsed  was  Prussia's  sun, 
And  by  the  French  invaders  the  land  was  overrun  ; 
But  while  the  German  people  were  silent  in  despair, 
Duke  August  painted  pictures,  and  curled  his  yellow  hair. 


Now,  when  at  Erfurt  gathered  the  ruling  royal  clan, 
Themselves  the  humble  subjects,  their  lord  the  Corsican, 
Each  bade  to  ball  and  banquet  the  sparer  of  his  line  : 
Duke  August  with  the  others,  to  Castle  Friedenstein. 


VI. 

Then  were   the  larders  rummaged,  the  forest-stags  were 

slain, 
The  tuns  of  oldest  vintage  showered  out  their  golden 


NAPOLEON  AT  GOTH  A.  7l 

The    towers   were    bright  with  banners,  —  but   all   the 

people  said  : 
"  We,  slaves,  must  feed  our  master,  —  would  God  that  he 

were  dead !  " 

VII. 
They   drilled    the    ducal    guardsmen,   men    young    and 

straight  and  tall, 

To  form  a  double  column,  from  gate  to  castle-wall  ; 
And  as  there  were  but  fifty,  the  first  must  wheel  away, 
Fall  in  beyond  the  others,  and  lengthen  the  array. 

VIII. 
"Parlleu!"  Napoleon  muttered  :  "  Your  Highness'  guards 

I  prize, 

So  young  and  strong  and  handsome,  and  all  of  equal  size!" 
"  You,  Sire,"  replied  Duke  August,  "  may  have  as  fine,  if 

you 
Will  twice  or  thrice  repeat  them,  as  I  am  forced  to  do ! " 

IX. 

Now,  in  the  Castle  household,  of  all  the  folk,  was  one 
Whose  heart  was  hot  within  him,  the  Ducal  Huntsman's 
son  j 


72  BALLADS. 

A  proud  and  bright-eyed  stripling ;  scarce  fifteen  years  he 

had, 
But  free  of  hall  and  chamber :  Duke  August  loved  the  lad. 

X. 

He  saw  the  forceful  homage  ;  he  heard  the  shouts  that 

came 

From  base  throats,  or  unwilling,  but  equally  of  shame  : 
He  thought :  "  One  man  has  done  it,  —  one  life  would  free 

the  land, 
But  all  are  slaves  and  cowards,  and  none  will  lift  a  hand  ! 

XI. 

"  My  grandsire  hugged  a  bear  to  death,  when  broke  his 

hunting-spear ; 

And  has  this  little  Frenchman  a  muzzle  I  should  fear? 
If  kings  are  cowed,  and  princes,  and  all  the  land  is  scared, 
Perhaps  a  boy  can  show  them  the  thing  they  might  have 

dared !  " 

XII. 

Napoleon  on  the  morrow  was  coming  once  again, 
(And  all  the  castle  knew  it)  without  his  courtly  train  ; 


NAPOLEON  AT  GOTH  A.  73 

And,  when  the  stairs  were  mounted,  there  was  no  other 

road 
But  one  long,  lonely  passage,  to  where  the  Duke  abode, 

XIII. 

None  guessed  the  secret  purpose  the  silent  stripling  kept : 
Deep  in  the  night  he  waited,  and,  when  his  father  slept, 
Took  from  the  rack  of  weapons  a  musket  old  and  tried, 
And  cleaned  the  lock  and  barrel,  and  laid  it  at  his  side. 

XIV. 

He  held  it  fast  in  slumber,  he  lifted  it  in  dreams 
Of  sunlit  mountain-forests  and  stainless  mountain-streams ; 
And  in  the  morn  he  loaded  —  the  load  was  bullets  three  : 
"  For  Deutschland  —  for   Duke   August  —  and   now  the 
third  for  me  !  " 

XV. 

"  What !  ever  wilt  be  hunting  ?  "  the  stately  Marshal  cried  ; 
"  I  '11  fetch  a  stag  of  twenty  !  "  the  pale-faced  boy  replied, 
As,  clad  in  forest  color,  he  sauntered  through  the  court, 
And  said,  when  none  could  hear  him :     "  Now,  may  the 
time  be  short !  " 
4 


74  P>  ALL  ADS. 

XVI. 

The  corridor  was  vacant,  the  windows  full  of  sun  ; 

He   stole    within    the    midmost,    and   primed    afresh   his 

gun ; 

Then  stood,  with  all  his  senses  alert  in  ear  and  eye 
To  catch  the  lightest  signal   that  showed  the  Emperor 

nigh. 

XVII. 

A  sound  of  wheels  :  a  silence  :  the  muffled  sudden  jar 
Of  guards  their  arms  presenting  :    a  footstep  mounting 

far, 

Then  nearer,  briskly  nearer,  —  a  footstep,  and  alone  ! 
And  at  the  farther  portal  appeared  Napoleon  ! 


XVIII. 

Alone,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  firm  and  massive  head 
With   brooded   plans   uplifted,  he   came  with   measured 

tread  : 
And  yet,  those  feet  had  shaken  the  nations  from  their 

poise, 
And  yet,  that  will  to  shake  them  depended  on  the  boy's ! 


NAPOLEON  AT  GOTH  A.  75 

XIX. 

With  finger  on  the  trigger,  the  gun  held  hunter-wise, 

His   rapid    heart-beats    sending  the  blood  to  brain   and 

eyes, 
The   boy    stood,    firm    and  deadly,  —  another  moment's 

space, 
And  then  the  Emperor  saw  him,  and  halted,  face  to  face. 


XX. 

A  mouth  as  cut  in  marble,  an  eye  that  pierced  and  stung 
As  might  a  god's,  all-seeing,  the  soul  of  one  so  young : 
A  look  that  read  his  secret,  that  lamed  his  callow  will, 
That  inly  smiled,  and  dared  him  his  purpose  to  fulfil ! 


XXI. 

As  one  a  serpent  trances,  the  boy,  forgetting  all, 

Felt   but   that   face,    nor    noted    the    harmless   musket's 

fall; 
Nor  breathed,  nor  thought,  nor  trembled  ;  but,  pale  and 

cold  as  stone, 
Saw  pass,  nor  look  behind  him,  the  calm  Napoleon. 


76  BALLADS. 

XXII. 

And   these   two   kept   their   secret;   but   from    that   day 

began 

The  sense  of  fate  and  duty  that  made  the  boy  a  man  ; 
And  long  he  lived  to  tell  it,  —  and,  better,  lived  to  say : 
'•God's  purposes  were  grander:  He  thrust  me  from  His 

way !  " 


THE    ACCOLADE. 

I. 

UNDER  the  lamp  in  the  tavern  yard 
The  beggars  and  thieves  were  met ; 

Ruins  of  lives  that  were  evil-starred, 

Battered  bodies  and  faces  hard, 
A  loveless  and  lawless  set. 

II. 
The  cans  were  full,  if  the  scrip  was  lean ; 

A  fiddler  played  to  the  crowd 
The  high-pitched  lilt  of  a  tune  obscene, 
When  there  entered  the  gate,  in  garments  mean, 

A  stranger  tall  and  proud. 

III. 

There  was  danger  in  their  doubting  eyes ; 
"  Now  who  are  you  ?  "  they  said. 


78  BALLADS. 

"  One  wjio  has  been  more  wild  than  wise, 
Who  lias  played  with  force  and  fed  on  lies, 
As  you  on  your  mouldy  bread. 

IV. 
"  The  false  have  come  to  me,  high  and  low, 

Where  I  only  sought  the  true  : 
I  am  sick  of  sham  and  sated  with  show ; 
The  honest  evil  I  fain  would  know, 

In  the  license  here  with  you." 

V. 

"He  shall  go  !"     "  He  shall  stay!"     In  hot  debate 

Their  whims  and  humors  ran, 
When  Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm  square  and  straight 
Stood  up,  like  a  man  whose  word  is  fate, 

A  reckless  and  resolute  man. 

VI. 

"Why  brawl,"  said  he,  "at  so  slight  a  thing? 

Are  fifty  afraid  of  one  ? 
We  have  taken  a  stranger  into  our  ring 
Ere  this,  and  made  him  in  sport  our  king ; 

So  let  it  to-night  be  done  ! 


THE  ACCOLADE.  79 

VTL 
"  Fetch  him  a  crown  of  tinsel  bright, 

For  sceptre  a  tough  oak-staff ; 
And  who  most  serves  to  the  King's  delight, 
The  King  shall  dub  him  his  own  true  knight, 

And  I  swear  the  King  shall  laugh !  " 

VIII. 
They  brought  him  a  monstrous  tinsel  crown, 

They  put  the  staff  in  his  hand ; 
There  was  wrestling  and  racing  up  and  down, 
There  was  song  of  singer  and  jest  of  clown, 

There  was  strength  and  sleight-of-hand. 

IX. 

The  King,  he  pledged  them  with  clink  of  can, 

He  laughed  with  a  royal  glee  ; 
There  was  dull  mistrust  when  the  sports  began, 
There  was  roaring  mirth  when  the  rearmost  man 

Gave  out,  and  the  ring  was  free. 

X. 

For  Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm  strove  with  a  will, 
With  the  wit  and  the  strength  of  four ; 


80  BALLADS. 

There  was  never  a  part  he  dared  not  fill, 
Wrestler,  and  singer,  and  clown,  until 
The  motley  struggle  was  o'er. 

XI. 
And  ever  he  turned  from  the  deft  surprise, 

And  ever  from  strain  or  thrust, 
With  a  dumb  appeal  in  his  laughing  guise, 
And  gazed  on  the  King  with  wistful  eyes, 

Panting,  and  rough  with  dust. 

XII. 
"  Kneel,  Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm  !     Our  delight 

Hath  most  been  due  to  thee," 
Said  the  King,  and  stretched  his  rapier  bright : 
"  Rise,  Sir  John  Armstrong,  our  true  knight, 

Bold,  fortunate,  and  free  !  " 

XIII. 
Jack  o'  the  Strong  Arm  knelt  and  bowed, 

To  meet  the  christening  blade ; 
He  heard  the  shouts  of  the  careless  crowd, 
And  murmured  something,  as  though  he  vowed, 

When  he  felt  the  accolade. 


THE  ACCOLADE.  8  1 


He  kissed  the  King's  hand  tenderly, 

Full  slowly  then  did  rise, 
And  within  him  a  passion  seemed  to  be  ; 
I^or  his  choking  throat  they  all  could  see, 

And  the  strange  tears  in  his  eyes. 

XV. 

From  his  massive  breast  the  rags  he  threw, 

He  threw  them  from  body  and  limb, 
Till,  bare  as  a  new-born  babe  to  view, 
He  faced  them,  no  longer  the  man  they  knew  : 
They  silently  stared  at  him. 

XVI. 

"  O  King  !  "  he  said,  "  thou  wert  King,  I  knew  ; 

I  am  verily  knight,  O  King  ! 
What  thou  hast  done  thou  canst  not  undo  ; 
Thou  hast  come  to  the  false  and  found  the  true 

In  the  carelessly  ventured  thing. 

XVII. 
"  As  I  cast  away  these  rags  I  have  worn, 

The  life  that  was  in  them  I  cast  ; 

4*  F 


82  BALLADS. 

Take  me,  naked  and-Jiewly  born, 
Test  me  with  power  and  pride  and  scorn, 
I  shall  be  true  to  the  last !  " 

XVIII. 
His  large,  clear  eyes  were  weak  as  he  spoke, 

But  his  mouth  was  firm  and  strong ; 
And  a  cry  from  the  thieves  and  beggars  broke, 
As  the  King  took  off  his  own  wide  cloak 

And  covered  him  from  the  throng. 

XIX. 

He  gave  him  his  royal  hand  in  their  sight, 
And  he  said,  before  the  ring : 

"  Come  with  me,  Sir  John  !     Be  leal  and  right ; 

If  I  have  made  thee  all  of  a  knight, 

Thou  hast  made  me  more  of  a  king ! " 


ERIC    AND    AXEL. 

I. 

THOUGH  they  never  divided  my  meat  or  wine, 

Yet  Eric  and  Axel  are  friends  of  mine  j 

Never  shared  my  sorrow,  nor  laughed  with  my  glee, 

Yet  Eric  and  Axel  are  dear  to  me  j 

And  faithfuller  comrades  no  man  ever  knew 

Than  Eric  and  Axel,  the  fearless,  the  true ! 


II. 

When  I  hit  the  target,  they  feel  no  pride  ; 
When  I  spin  with  the  waltzers,  they  wait  outside ; 
When  the  holly  of  Yule-tide  hangs  in  the  hall, 
And  kisses  are  freest,  they  care  not  at  all ; 
When  I  sing,  they  are  silent ;  I  speak,  they  obey, 
Eric  and  Axel,  my  hope  and  my  stay ! 


4  BALLADS. 

III. 

They  wait  for  my  coming ;  they  know  I  shall  come, 
When  the  dancers  are  faint  and  the  fiddlers  numb, 
With  a  shout  of  "  Ho,  Eric  !  "  and  "  Axel,  ho  !  " 
As  we  skim  the  wastes  of  the  Norrland  snow, 
And  their  frozen  breath  to  a  silvery  gray 
Turns  Eric's  raven  and  Axel's  bay. 

IV. 

By  the  bondehus  and  the  herregoard, 
O'er  the  glassy  pavement  of  frith  and  fiord, 
Through  the  tall  fir-woods,  that  like  steel  are  drawn 
On  the  broadening  red  of  the  rising  dawn, 
Till  one  low  roof,  where  the  hills  unfold, 
Shelters  us  all  from  the  angry  cold. 

V. 

I  tell  them  the  secret  none  else  shall  hear ; 
I  love  her,  Eric,  I  love  my  dear ! 
I  love  her,  Axel ;  wilt  love  her,  too, 
Though  her  eyes  are  dark  and  mine  are  blue? 
She  has  eyes  like  yours,  so  dark  and  clear  : 
Eric  and  Axel  will  love  my  clear  !• 


ERIC  AND   AXEL.  85 

VI. 

They  would  speak  if  they  could ;  but  I  think  they  know 
Where,  when  the  moon  is  thin,  they  shall  go, 
To  wait  awhile  in  the  sleeping  street, 
To  hasten  away  upon  snow-shod  feet,  — 
Away  and  away,  ere  the  morning  star 
Touches  the  tops  of  the  spires  of  Calmar ! 

VII. 

Per,  the  merchant,  may  lay  at  her  feet 
His  Malaga  wine  and  his  raisins  sweet, 
Brought  in  his  ships  from  Portugal  land, 
And  I  am  as  bare  as  the  palm  of  my  hand  ; 
But  she  sighs  for  me,  and  she  sighs  for  you, 
Eric  and  Axel,  my  comrades  true  ! 

VIII. 

You  care  not,  Eric,  for  gold  and  wine  ; 

You  care  not,  Axel,  for  show  and  shine ; 

But  you  care  for  the  touch  of  the  hand  that 's  dear, 

And  the  voice  that  fondles  you  through  the  ear, 

And  you  shall  save  us,  through  storm  and  snow, 

When  she  calls  :  "  Ho,  Eric  !  "  and  "  Axel,  ho  !  " 


LYRICS. 


LYRICS. 


THE    BURDEN    OF    THE    DAY, 

I. 

WHO  shall  rise  and  cast  away, 
First,  the  Burden  of  the  Day  ? 
Who  assert  his  place,  and  teach 
Lighter  labor,  nobler  speech, 
Standing  firm,  erect,  and  strong, 
Proud  as  Freedom,  free  as  Song  ? 

II. 

Lo  !  we  groan  beneath  the  weight 
Our  own  weaknesses  create  ; 
Crook  the  knee  and  shut  the  lip, 
All  for  tamer  fellowship  ; 
Load  our  slack,  compliant  clay 
,    With  the  Burden  of  the  Day ! 


90  LYRICS. 

III. 

Higher  paths  there  are  to  tread  ; 
Fresher  fields  around  us  spread  ; 
Other  flames  of  sun  and  star 
Flash  at  hand  and  lure  afar ; 
Larger  manhood  might  we  share, 
Surer  fortune,  —  did  we  dare  ! 

IV. 

In  our  mills  of  common  thought 
By  the  pattern  all  is  wrought : 
In  our  school  of  life,  the  man 
Drills  to  suit  the  public  plan, 
And  through  labor,  love,  and  play, 
Shifts  the  Burden  of  the  Day. 


Ah,  the  gods  of  wood  and  stone 
Can  a  single  saint  dethrone, 
But  the  people  who  shall  aid 
'Gainst  the  puppets  they  have  made  ? 
First  they  teach  and  then  obey : 
'T  is  the  Lurden  of  the  Day. 


THE  BURDEN  OF  THE  DAY.  91 

VI. 

Thunder  shall  we  never  hear 
In  this  ordered  atmosphere  ? 
Never  this  monotony  feel 
Shattered  by  a  trumpet's  peal  ? 
Never  airs  that  burst  and  blow 
From  eternal  summits,  know  ? 

VII. 

Though  no  man  resent  his  wrong, 
Still  is  free  the  poet's  song  : 
Still,  a  stag,  his  thought  may  leap 
O'er  the  herded  swine  and  sheep, 
And  in  pastures  far  away 
Lose  the  Burden  of  the  Day ! 


IN    THE    LISTS. 

COULD  I  choose  the  age  and  fortunate  season 

When  to  be  born, 
I  would  fly  from  the  censure  of  your  barren  reason, 

And  the  scourges  of  your  scorn  : 
Could  I  take  the  tongue,  and  the  land,  and  the  station 

That  to  me  were  fit, 
I  would  make  my  life  a  force  and  an  exultation, 

And  you  could  not  stifle  it ! 

But  the  thing  most  near  to  the  freedom  I  covet 

Is  the  freedom  I  wrest 
From  a  time  that  would  bar  me  from  climbing  above  it, 

To  seek  the  East  in  the  West. 
I  have  dreamed  of  the  forms  of  a  nobler  existence 

Than  you  give  me  here, 
And  the  beauty  that  lies  afar  in  the  dateless  distance 

I  would  conquer,  and  bring  more  near. 


IN  THE  LISTS.  93 

It  is  good,  undowered  with  the  bounty  of  Fortune, 

In  the  sun  to  stand  : 
Let  others  excuse,  and  cringe,  and  importune, 

I  will  try  the  strength  of  my  hand  ! 
If  I  fail,  I  shall  fall  not  among  the  mistaken, 

Whom  you  dare  deride  : 
If  I  win,  you  shall  hear,  and  see,  and  at  last  awaken 

To  thank  me  because  I  defied  ! 


THE    SUNSHINE    OF    THE    GODS 

I. 

WHO  shall  sunder  the  fetters, 
Who  scale  the  invisible  ramparts 
Whereon  our  nimblest  forces 
Hurl  their  vigor  in  vain  ? 
Where,  like  the  baffling  crystal 
To  a  wildered  bird  of  the  heavens, 
Something  holds  and  imprisons 
The  eager,  the  stirring  brain  ? 


II. 

Alas,  from  the  fresh  emotion, 
From  thought  that  is  born  of  feeling, 
From  form,  self-shaped,  and  slowly 
Its  own  completeness  evolving, 
To  the  rhythmic  speech,  how  long ! 


THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THE  GODS.      95 

What  hand  shall  master  the  tumult 

Where  one  on  the  other  tramples, 

And  none  escapes  a  wrong? 

Where  the  crowning  germs  of  a  thousand 

Fancies  encumber  the  portal, 

Till  one  plucks  a  voice  from  the  murmurs 

And  lifts  himself  into  Song ! 


III. 

As  a  man  that  walks  in  the  mist, 
As  one  that  gropes  for  the  morning 
Through  lengthening  chambers  of  twilight, 
The  souls  of  the  poems  wander 
Restless,  and  dumb,  and  lost, 
Till  the  Word,  like  a  beam  of  morning, 
Shivers  the  pregnant  silence, 
And  the  light  of  speech  descends 
Like  a  tongue  of  the  Pentecost ! 


IV. 


Ah,  moment  not  to  be  purchased, 
Not  to  be  won  by  prayers, 


L  VR/CS. 

Not  by  toil  to  be  conquered, 
But  given,  lest  one  despair, 
By  the  Gods  in  wayward  kindness, 
Stay  —  thou  art  all  too  fair  ! 
Hour  of  the  dancing  measures, 
Sylph  of  the  dew  and  rainbow, 
Let  us  clutch  thy  shining  hair ! 


V. 

For  the  mist  is  blown  from  the  mind, 
For  the  impotent  yearning  is  over, 
And  the  wings  of  the  thoughts  have  power 
In  the  warmth  and  the  glow  creative 
Existence  mellows  and  ripens, 
And  a  crowd  of  swift  surprises 

Sweetens  the  fortunate  hour ; 

— . — -^—^^J 
Till  a  shudder  of  rapture  loosens 

The  tears  that  hang  on  the  eyelids 
Like  a  breeze-suspended  shower, 
With  a  sense  of  heavenly  freshness 
Blown  from  beyond  the  sunshine, 
And  the  blood,  like  the  sap  of  the  roses, 
Breaks  into  bud  and  flower. 


THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THE  GODS.      97 

VI. 

'T  is  the  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 
The  sudden  light  that  quickens, 
Unites  the  nimble  forces, 
And  yokes  the  shy  expression 
To  the  thoughts  that  waited  long,  — 
Waiting  and  wooing  vainly : 
But  now  they  meet  like  lovers 
In  the  time  of  willing  increase, 
Each  warming  each,  and  giving 
The  kiss  that  maketh  strong  : 
And  the  mind  feels  fairest  May-time 
In  the  marriage  of  its  passions, 
For  Thought  is  one  with  Speech, 
In  the  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 
And  Speech  is  one  with  Song  ! 


VII. 

Then  a  rhythmic  pulse  makes  order 
In  the  troops  of  wandering  fancies  : 
Held  in  soft  subordination, 
Lo  !  they  follow,  lead,  or  fly. 

5  G 


9S  LYRICS. 

The  fields  of  their  feet  are  endless, 

And  the  heights  and  the  deeps  are  open 

To  the  glance  of  the  equal  sky : 

And  the  Masters  sit  no  longer 

In  inaccessible  distance, 

But  give  to  the  haughtiest  question, 

Smiling,  a  sweet  reply. 

VIII. 

Dost  mourn,  because  the  moment 
Is  a  gift  beyond  thy  will,  — 
A  gift  thy  dreams  had  promised, 
Yet  they  gave  to  Chance  its  keeping 
And  fettered  thy  free  achievement 
With  the  hopes  they  not  fulfil  ? 
Dost  sigh  o'er  the  fleeting  rapture, 
The  bliss  of  reconcilement 
Of  powers  that  work  apart, 
Yet  lean  on  each  other  still  ? 


IX. 


Be  glad,  for  this  is  the  token, 
The  sign  and  the  seal  of  the  Poet : 


THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THE  GODS.      99 

Were  it  held  by  will  or  endeavor, 

There  were  naught  so  precious  in  Song. 

Wait :  for  the  shadows  unlifted 

To  a  million  that  crave  the  sunshine, 

Shall  be  lifted  for  thee  erelong. 

Light  from  the  loftier  regions 

Here  unattainable  ever,  — 

Bath  of  brightness  and  beauty,  - 

Let  it  make  thee  glad  and  strong ! 

Not  to  clamor  or  fury, 

Not  to  lament  or  yearning, 

But  to  faith  and  patience  cometh 

The  Sunshine  of  the  Gods, 

The  hour  of  perfect  Song ! 


NOTUS    IGNOTO. 

I. 

IJO  you  sigh  for  the  power  you  dream  of, 

The  fair,  evasive  secret, 

The  rare  imagined  passion, 

O  Friend  unknown  ! 

Do  you  haunt  Egyptian  portals, 

Where,  within,  the  laboring  goddess 

Yields  to  the  hands  of  her  chosen 

The  sacred  child,  alone  ? 


II. 

Ah,  pause  !     There  is  consolation 
For  you,  and  pride  : 
Free  of  choice  and  worship, 
Spared  the  pang  and  effort, 
Nor  partial  made  by  triumph, 


NOT  US  IGNOTO.  IO1 

The  poet's  limitations 

You  lightly  set  aside  : 

Revived,  in  your  fresher  spirit 

The  buds  of  my  thought  may  blossom, 

And  the  clew,  from  weary  fingers 

Fallen,  become  your  guide  ! 

The  taker,  even  as  the  giver, 

The  user  as  the  maker, 

Soil  as  seed,  and  rain  as  sunshine, 

Alike  are  glorified  ! 


III. 

1 
/Loss  with  gain  is  balanced  ; 

You  may  reach,  when  I  but  beckon  ; 
You  may  drink,  though  mine  the  vintage, 
You  complete  what  I  begun. 
When  at  the  temple-door  I  falter, 
You  advance  to  the  altar  ; 

I  but  rise  to  the  daybreak, 

You  to  the  sun  ! 

My  goal  is  your  beginning  : 

My  steeps  of  aspiration 

For  you  are  won  1 


102  LYRICS. 

IV. 

Hark  !  the  nightingale  is  chanting 
As  if  her  mate  but  knew ; 
Yet  the  dream  within  me 
Which  the  bird-voice  wakens, 
Takes  from  her  unconscious 
Prompting,  form  and  hue : 
So  the  song  I  sing  you, 
Voice  alone  of  my  being, 
Song  for  the  mate  and  the  nestling, 
Finer  and  sweeter  meaning 
May  possess  for  you  ! 
Lifting  to  starry  summits, 
Filling  with  infinite  passion, 
While  the  witless  singer  broodeth 
In  the  darkness  and  the  dew ! 


V. 

Carved  on  the  rock  as  an  arrow 
To  point  your  path,  am  I : 
A  cloud  that  tells,  in  the  heavens, 
Which  way  the  breezes  fly  : 


NOTUS  IGNOTO.  103 

A  brook  that  is  bom  in  the  meadows, 

And  wanders  at  will,  nor  guesses 

Whither  its  waters  hie  : 

A  child  that  scatters  blossoms, 

Thoughtless  of  memoried  odors 

Or  sweet  surprises  of  color, 

That  waken  when  you  go  by : 

A  bee-bird  of  the  woodland, 

That  finds  the  honeyed  hollows 

Of  ancient  oaks,  for  others,  — 

Even  as  these,  am  I ! 


VI. 

Accept,  and  enjoy,  and  follow,  — 

Conquer  wherein  I  yield  ! 

Make  yours  the  bright  conclusion, 

From  me  concealed ! 

Truth,  to  whom  will  possess  it, 

Beauty,  to  whom  embraces, 

Song  and  its  inmost  secret, 

Life  and  its  unheard  music, 

To  whom  will  hear  and  know  them, 

Are  ever  revealed ! 


IN    MY    VINEYARD. 

I. 

AT  last  the  dream  that  clad  the  field 

Is  fairest  fact,  and  stable  ; 
At  last  my  vines  a  covert  yield, 

A  patch  for  song  and  fable. 
I  thread  the  rustling  ranks,  that  hide 

Their  misty  violet  treasure, 
And  part  the  sprays  with  more  than  piide, 

And  more  than  owner's  pleasure. 


II. 

The  tender  shoots,  the  fragrance  fine, 
Betray  the  garden's  poet, 

Whose  daintiest  life  is  turned  to  wine, 
Yet  half  is  shy  to  show  it,  — 


IN  MY   VINEYARD.  105 

The  epicure,  who  yields  to  toil 

A  scarce  fulfilled  reliance, 
But  takes  from  sun  and  clew  and  soil 

A  grace  unguessed  by  science. 

III. 

Faint  odors,  from  the  bunches  blown, 

Surround  me  and  subdue  me  ; 
The  vineyard-breath  of  many  a  zone 

Is  softly  breathing  through  me  : 
From  slopes  of  Eshkol,  in  the  sun, 

And  many  a  hillside  classic  ; 
From  where  Falernian  juices  run, 

And  where  they  press  the  Massic ! 

IV. 

Where  airy  terraces,  on  high, 

The  hungry  vats  replenish, 
And,  less  from  earth  than  from  the  sky, 

Distil  the  golden  Rhenish  : 
Where,  light  of  heart,  the  Bordelais 

Compels  h*s  stony  level 
To  burst  and  foam  in  purple  spray,  — • 

The  rose  that  crowns  the  revel ! 
5* 


106  LYRICS. 

V. 

So  here,  as  there,  the  subject  earth 

Shall  take  a  tenderer  duty ; 
And  Labor  walk  with  harmless  Mirth, 

And  wed  with  loving  Beauty  : 
So,  here,  a  gracious  life  shall  fix 

Its  seat,  in  sunnier  weather; 
For  sap  and  blood  so  sweetly  mix, 

And  richly  run  together ! 


The  vine  was  exiled  from  the  land 

That  bore  but  needful  burdens  ; 
But  now  we  slack  the  weary  hand, 

And  look  for  gentler  guerdons : 
We  take  from  Ease  a  grace  above 

The  strength  we  took  from  Labor, 
And  win  to  laugh,  and  woo  to  love, 

Each  grimly-earnest  neighbor. 

VII. 

What  idle  dreams  !     Even  as  I  muse, 
I  feel  a  falling  shadow  ; 


IN  MY   VINEYARD.  1 07 

And  vapors  blur  and  clouds  confuse 

My  coining  Eldorado. 
Portentous,  grim,  a  ghost  draws  nigh, 

To  clip  my  flying  fancy, 
And  change  the  shows  of  earth  and  sky 

With  evil  necromancy. 


VJII. 

The  leaves  on  every  vine-branch  curl 

As  if  a  frost  had  stung  them  ; 
The  bunches  shrivel,  snap,  and  whirl 

As  if  a  tempest  flung  them  ; 
And  as  the  ghost  his  forehead  shakes, 

Denying  and  commanding, 
But  withered  stalks  and  barren  stakes 

Surround  me  where  I  'm  standing. 


IX. 

"  Beware  !  "  the  spectre  cried  ;  "  the  woe 

Of  this  delusive  culture  ! 
The  nightingale  that  lures  thee  so 

Shall  hatch  a  ravening  vulture. 


IOS  LYRICS. 

To  feed  the  vat,  to  fill  the  bin, 

Thou  pluck'st  the  vineyard's  foison, 

That  drugs  the  cup  of  mirth  with  sin, 
The  veins  of  health  with  poison  !  " 

X. 

But  now  a  golden  mist  was  born, 

With  violet  odors  mingled  : 
I  felt  a  brightness,  as  of  morn, 

And  all  my  pulses  tingled  ; 
And  forms  arose,  —  among  them  first 

The  old  Ionian  lion, 
And  they,  Sicilian  Muses  nursed, — 

Theocritus  and  Bion. 

XI. 

And  he  of  Teos,  he  of  Rome, 

The  Sabine  bard  and  urban  ; 
And  Saadi,  from  his  Persian  home, 

And  Hafiz  in  his  turban  : 
And  Shakespeare,  silent,  sweet,  and  grave, 

And  Herrick  with  his  lawns  on  ; 
And  Luther,  mellow,  burly,  brave, 

Along  with  Rare  Ben  Jonson  ! 


IN  MY   VINEYARD.  109 

XII. 

"  Be  comforted  !  "  they  seemed  to  say  ; 

"  For  Nature  does  no  treasons : 
She  neither  gives  nor  takes  away 

Without  eternal  reasons. 
She  h,eaps  the  stores  of  corn  and  oil 

In  such  a  liberal  measure, 
That,  past  the  utmost  need  of  Toil, 

There  's  something  left  for  Pleasure. 

XIII. 

"  The  secret  soul  of  sun  and  dew 

Not  vainly  she  distilleth, 
And  from  these  globes  of  pink  and  blue 

A  harmless  cup  she  filleth  : 
Who  loveth  her  may  take  delight 

In  what  for  him  she  dresses, 
Nor  find  in  cheerful  appetite 

The  portal  to  excesses. 

XIV. 

"  Yes,  ever  since  the  race  began 
To  press  the  vineyard's  juices, 


LYRICS. 

It  was  the  brute  within  the  man 
Defiled  their  nobler  uses  ; 

But  they  who  take  from  order  joy, 
And  make  denial  duty, 

Provoke  the  brute  they  should  destroy 
By  Freedom  and  by  Beauty !  " 

XV. 

They  spake;  and,  lo  !  the  baleful  shape 

Grew  dim,  and  then  retreated ; 
And  bending  o'er  the  hoarded  grape, 

The  vines  my  vision  greeted. 
The  sunshine  burst,  the  breezes  turned 

The  leaves  till  they  were  hoary, 
And  over  all  the  vineyard  burned 

A  fresher  light  of  glory  ! 


THE    TWO    HOMES. 


MY  home  was  seated  high  and  fair, 

Upon  a  mountain's  side  ; 
The  day  was  longest,  brightest  there  ; 

Beneath,  the  world  was  wide. 
Across  its  blue,  embracing  zone 
The  rivers  gleamed,  the  cities  shone, 
And  over  the  edge  of  the  fading  rim 
I  saw  the  storms  in  the  distance  dim, 

And  the  flash  of  the  soundless  thunder. 


TT. 

But  weary  grew  the  sharp,  cold  wine 
Of  winds  that  never  kissed, 

The  changeless  green  of  fir  and  pine. 
The  gray  and  clinging  mist. 


112  LYRICS. 

Above  the  granite  sprang  no  bowers ; 
The  soil  gave  low  and  scentless  flowers ; 
And  the  drone  and  din  of  the  waterfall 
Became  a  challenge,  a  taunting  call : 
"  T  is  fair,  't  is  fair  in  the  valley !  " 


III. 

Of  all  the  homesteads  deep  and  far 

My  fancy  clung  to  one, 
Whose  gable  burned,  a  mellow  star, 

Touched  by  the  sinking  sun. 
Unseen  around,  but  not  unguessed, 
The  orchards  made  a  leafy  nest ; 
The  turf  before  it  was  thick,  I  knew, 
And  bees  were  busy  the  garden  through, 

And  the  windows  were  dark  with  roses. 


IV. 

"  'T  is  happier  there,  below,"  I  sighed  : 
The  world  is  warm  and  near, 

And  closer  love  and  comfort  hide, 
That  cannot  reach  me  here. 


THE    TWO  HOMES.  I  13 

Who  there  abides  must  be  so  blest 
He  '11  share  with  me  his  sheltered  nest, 
If  clown  to  the  valley  I  should  go, 
Leaving  the  granite,  the  pines  and  snow, 
And  the  winds  that  are  keen  as  lances." 


V. 

I  wandered  down,  by  ridge  and  dell ; 

The  way  was  rough  and  long : 
Though  earlier  shadows  round  me  fell, 

I  cheered  them  with  my  song. 
The  world's  great  circle  narrower  grew, 
Till  hedge  and  thicket  hid  the  blue ; 
But  over  the  orchards,  near  at  hand, 
The  gable  shone  on  the  quiet  land, 

And  far  away  was  the  mountain  ! 


VI. 

Then  came  the  master :  mournful-eyed 

And  stern  of  brow  was  he. 
"O,  planted  in  such  peace  !  "  I  cried, 

"  Spare  but  the  least  to  me  !  " 


114  LYRICS. 

"  Who  seeks,"  he  said,  "  this  brooding  haze, 
The  tameness  of  these  weary  days  ? 
The  highway's  dust,  the  glimmer  and  heat, 
The  woods  that  fetter  the  young  wind's  feet, 
And  hide  the  world  and  its  beauty  ? " 


VII. 

He  stretched  his  hand  ;  he  looked  afar 

With  eyes  of  old  desire  : 
I  saw  my  home,  a  mellow  star 

That  held  the  sunset's  fire. 
"  But  yonder  home,"  he  cried,  "  how  fair  ! 
Its  chambers  burn  like  gilded  air ; 
I  know  that  the  gardens  are  wild  as  dreams, 
With  the  sweep  of  winds,  the  dash  of  streams, 

And  the  pines  that  sound  as  an  anthem  ! 


VIII. 

"  So  quiet,  so  serenely  high 
It  sits,  when  clouds  are  furled, 

And  knows  the  beauty  of  the  sky, 
The  glory  of  the  world  ! 


THE    TWO  HOMES.  US 

Who  there  abides  must  be  so  blest 
He  '11  share  with  me  that  lofty  crest, 
If  up  to  the  mountain  I  should  go, 
Leaving  the  dust  and  the  glare  below, 
And  the  weary  life  of  the  valley  !  " 


IRIS. 

i. 

I  AM  born  from  the  womb  of  the  cloud 

And  the  strength  of  the  ardent  sun, 
When  the  winds  have  ceased  to  be  loud, 

And  the  rivers  of  rain  to  run. 
Then  light,  on  my  sevenfold  arch, 

I  swing  in  the  silence  of  air, 
While  the  vapors  beneath  me  march 

And  leave  the  sweet  earth  bare. 


IT. 

For  a  moment,  I  hover  and  gleam 
On  the  skirts  of  the  sinking  storm  ; 

And  I  die  in  the  bliss  of  the  beam 
That  g.:ve  me  being  and  form. 


IRIS. 

I  fade,  as  in  human  hearts 

The  rapture  that  mocks  the  -will : 

I  pass,  as  a  dream  departs 
That  cannot  itself  fulfil ! 


III. 

Beyond  the  bridge  I  have  spanned 

The  fields  of  the  Poet  unfold, 
And  the  riches  of  Fairyland 

At  my  bases  of  misty  gold. 
I  keep  the  wealth  of  the  spheres 

Which  the  high  Gods  never  have  won ; 
And  I  coin,  from  their  airy  tears, 

The  diadem  of  the  sun  ! 


IV. 

For  some  have  stolen  the  grace 
That  is  hidden  in  rest  or  strife ; 

And  some  have  copied  the  face 
Or  echoed  the  voice  of  Life ; 

And  some  have  woven  of  sound 
A  chain  of  the  sweetest  control, 


Il8  LYRICS. 

And  some  have  fabled  or  found 
The  key  to  the  human  soul : 


V. 

But  I,  from  the  blank  of  the  air 

And  the  white  of  the  barren  beam, 
Have  wrought  the  colors  that  flare 

In  the  forms  of  a  painter's  dream. 
I  gather  the  souls  of  the  flowers, 

And  the  sparks  of  the  gems,  to  me 
Till  pale  are  the  blossoming  bowers, 

And  dim  the  chameleon  sea ! 


VI. 

By  the  soul's  bright  sun,  the  eye, 

I  am  thrown  on  the  artist's  brain  ; 
He  follows  me,  and  I  fly ; 

He  pauses,  1  stand  again. 
O'er  the  reach  of  the  painted  world 

My  chorded  colors  I  hold, 
On  a  canvas  of  cloud  impearled 

Drawn  with  a  brush  of  gold  ! 


IRIS. 

VII. 

If  I  lure,  as  a  mocking  sprite, 

I  give,  as  a  goddess  bestows, 
The  red,  with  its  soul  of  might, 

And  the  blue,  with  its  cool  repose ; 
The  yellow  that  beckons  and  beams, 

And  the  gentler  children  they  bear 
For  the  portal  of  Art's  high  dreams 

Is  builded  of  Light  and  Air ! 


IMPLORA    PACE. 

1  HE  clouds  that  stoop  from  yonder  sky 
Discharge  their  burdens,  and  are  free  ; 
The  streams  that  take  them  hasten  by, 
To  find  relief  in  lake  and  sea. 

The  wildest  wind  in  vales  afar 

Sleeps,  pillowed  on  its  ruffled  wings  ; 

And  song,  through  many  a  stormy  bar, 
Beats  into  silence  on  the  strings  ' 

&       * 

And  love  o'ercomes  his  young  unrest, 
And  first  ambition's  flight  is  o'er ; 

And  doubt  is  cradled  on  the  breast 
Of  perfect  faith,  and  speaks  no  more. 

Our  dreams  and  passions  cease  to  dare, 
And  homely  patience  learns  her  part ; 

Yet  still  some  keen,  pursuing  care 
Forbids  content  to  brain  and  heart. 


IMP  LOR  A    PACE.  121 

The  gift  unreached,  beyond  the  hand ; 

The  fault  in  all  of  beauty  won  ; 
The  mildew  of  the  harvest  land, 

The  spots  upon  the  risen  sun ! 

And  still  some  cheaper  service  claims 

The  will  that  leaps  to  loftier  call : 
Some  cloud  is  cast  on  splendid  aims, 

On  power  achieved  some  "common  thrall. 

To  spoil  each  beckoning  victory, 

A  thousand  pygmy  hands  are  thrust ; 

And,  round  each  height  attained,  we  see 
Our  ether  dim  with  lower  dust. 

Ah,  could  we  breathe  some  peaceful  air, 

And  all  save  purpose  there  forget, 
Till  eager  courage  learn  to  bear 

The  gadfly's  sting,  the  pebble's  fret ! 

Let  higher  goal  and  harsher  way, 

To  test  our  virtue,  then  combine  ! 
'T  is  not  for  idle  ease  we  pray, 

But  freedom  for  our  task  divine. 
6 


PENN    CALVIN. 

I. 

oEARCH  high  and  low,  search  up  and  down, 

By  light  of  stars  or  sun, 
And  of  all  the  good  folks  of  our  town 

There  's  like  Penn  Calvin  none. 
He  lightly  laughs  when  all  condemn, 

He  smiles  when  others  pray ; 
And  what  is  sorest  truth  to  them 

To  him  is  idle  play. 


II. 

"  Penn  Calvin,  lift,  as  duty  bids, 
The  load  we  all  must  bear  !  " 

He  only  lifts  his  languid  lids, 

And  says  :  "  The  morn  is  fair  !  " 


PENN  CALVIN.  123 

"  Learn  while  you  may  !  for  Life  is  stern, 

And  Art,  alas  !  is  long." 
He  hums  and  answers  :  "  Yes,  I  learn 

The  cadence  of  a  song." 


III. 

"  The.  world  is  dark  with  human  woe  ; 

Man  eats  of  bitter  food." 
"  The  world,"  he  says,- "  is  all  aglow 

With  beauty,  bliss,  and  good  !  " 
"  To  crush  the  senses  you  must  strive, 

The  beast  of  flesh  destroy  !  " 
"  God  gave  this  body,  all  alive, 

And  every  sense  is  joy  !  " 


IV. 

"  Nay,  these  be  heathen  words  we  hear 
The  faith  they  teach  is  flown,  - 

A  mist  that  clings  to  temples  drear 
And  altars  overthrown." 

"  I  reck  not  how  nor  whence  it  came," 
He  answers  ;  "  I  possess  : 


I24  LYAICS. 

If  heathens  felt  and  owned  the  same, 
How  bright  was  heathenesse  !  " 


V. 


"  Though  you  be  stubborn  to  believe, 

Yet  learn  to  grasp  and  hold  : 
There  's  power  and  honor  to  achieve, 

And  royal  rule_of  gold  !  " 
Penn  Calvin  plucked  an  open  rose 

And  carolled  to  the  sky  : 
"  Shine,  sun  of  Day,  until  its  close,  — 

They  live,  and  so  do  I !  " 


VI. 

His  eyes  are  clear  as  they  were  kissed 

By  some  unrisen  dawn  ; 
Our  grave  and  stern  philanthropist 

Looks  sad,  and  passes  on. 
Our  pastor  scowls  ;  the  pious  flock 

Avert  their  heads,  and  flee  ; 
For  pestilence  or  earthquake-shock 

Less  dreadful  seems  than  he. 


PENN  CALVIN.  125 

VII. 

But  all  the  children  round  him  cling, 

Depraved  as  they  were  born ; 
And  vicious  men  his  praises  sing, 

Whom  he  forgets  to  scorn. 
Penn  Calvin's  strange  indifference  gives 

Our  folks  a  grievous  care  : 
He  's  simply  glad  because  he  lives, 

And  glad  the  world  is  fair  ! 


SUMMER    NIGHT. 

VARIATIONS    ON    CERTAIN    MELODIES. 

I. 
ANDANTE. 

UNDER  the  full-blown  linden  and  the  plane, 

That  link  their  arms  above 
In  mute,  mysterious  love, 

I  hear  the  strain  ! 
Is  it  the  far  postilion's  horn, 
Mellowed  by  starlight,  floating  up  the  valley, 

Or  song  of  love-sick  peasant,  borne 

Across  the  fields  of  fragrant  corn, 

And  poplar-guarded  alley  ? 
Now  from  the  woodbine  and  the  unseen  rose 

What  new  delight  is  showered  ? 

The  warm  wings  of  the  air 
Drop  into  downy  indolence  and  close, 

So  sweetly  overpowered  : 
But  nothing  sleeps,  though  rest  seems  everywhere. 


SUMMER  NIGHT.  127 

II. 

ADAGIO. 

Something  came  with  the  falling  dusk, 

Came,  and  quickened  to  soft  unrest : 
Something  floats  in  the  linden's  musk, 

And  throbs  in  the  brook  on  the  meadow's  breast. 

V 

Shy  Spirit  of  Love,  awake,  awake  ! 
All  things  feel  thee, 
And  all  reveal  thee  : 
The  night  was  given  for  thy  sweet  sake. 
Toil  slinks  aside,  and  leaves  to  thee  the  land  ; 
The  heart  beats  warmer  for  the  idle  hand ; 
The  timid  tongue  unlearns  its  wrong, 
And  speech  is  turned  to  song ; 
The  shaded  eyes  are  braver  ; 
And  every  life,  like  flowers  whose  scent  is  dumb 
Till  clew  and  darkness  come, 
Gives  forth  a  tender  savor. 
O,  each  so  lost  in  all,  who  may  resist 
The  plea  of  lips  unkissed, 
Or,  hearing  such  a  strain, 
Though  kissed  a  thousand  times,  kiss  not  again  ! 


128  LYRICS. 

III. 
APPASSIONATO. 

Was  it  a  distant  flute 
That  breathed,  and  now  is  mute  ? 
Or  that  lost  soul  men  call  the  nightingale, 

In  bosky  coverts  hidden, 
Filling  with  sudden  passion  all  the  vale  ? 

O,  chant  again  the  tale, 

And  call  on  her  whose  name  returns,  unbidden, 
A  longing  and  a  dream, 

Adelaida  ! 

For  while  the  sprinkled  stars 
Sparkle,  and  \vink,  and  gleam, 

Adelaida ! 

Darkness  and  perfume  cleave  the  unknown  bars 
Between  the  enamored  heart  and  thee, 
And  thou  and  I  are  free, 

Adelaida ! 

Less  than  a  name,  a  melody,  art  thou, 
A  hope,  a  haunting  vow  ! 
The  passion-cloven 
Spirit  of  thy  Beethoven 


SUMMER  NIGHT.  129 

Claimed  with  less  ardor  than  I  claim  thee  now, 

Adelaida ! 

Take  form,  at  last :  from  these  o'erbending  branches 
Descend,  or  from  the  grass  arise  ! 
I  scarce  shall  see  thine  eyes, 
Or  know  what  blush  the  shadow  stanches  ; 
But  all  my  being's  empty  urn  shall  be 
Filled  with  thy  mystery  ! 

IV. 

CAPRICCIOSO. 

Nay,  nay  !  the  longings  tender, 
The  fear,  the  marvel,  and  the  mystery, 
The  shy,  delicious  dread,  the  unreserved  surrender, 
Give,  if  thou  canst,  to  me ! 

For  I  would  be, 
In  this  expressive  languor, 

While  night  conceals,  the  wooed  and  not  the  wooer ; 
Shaken  with  supplication,  keen  as  anger ; 

Pursued,  and  thou  pursuer  ! 
Plunder  my  bosom  of  its  hoarded  fire,     • 

And  so  assail  me, 
That  coy  denial  fail  me, 


130  LYRICS. 

Slain  by  the  mirrored  shape  of  my  desire  ! 

Though  life  seem  overladen 
With  conquered  bliss,  it  only  craves  the  more  : 
Teach  me  the  other  half  of  passion's  lore  — 
Be  thou  the  man,  and  I  the  maiden  ! 

Ah  !  come, 
While  earth  is  waiting,  heaven  is  dumb, 

And  blossom-sighs 
So  penetrate  the  indolent  air, 
The  very  stars  grow  fragrant  in  the  skies ! 

Arise, 

And  thine  approach  shall  make  me  fair, 
Thy  borrowed  pleading  all  too  soon  subdue  me, 
Till  both  forget  the  part ; 
And  she  who  failed  to  woo  me, 
So  caught,  is  held  to  my  impatient  heart  ! 


THE    SLEEPER. 

1  HE  glen  was  fair  as  some  Arcadian  dell, 
All  shadow,  coolness,  and  the  rush  of  streams, 

Save  where  the  sprinkled  blaze  of  noonday  fell 
Like  stars  within  its  under-sky  of  dreams. 

Rich  leaf  and  blossomed  grape  and  fern-tuft  made 

Odors  of  life  and  slumber  through  the  shade. 

"  O  peaceful  heart  of  Nature  !  "  was  my  sigh  ; 

"  How  dost  thou  shame,  in  thine  unconscious  bliss, 
Thy  sure  accordance  with  the  changing  sky, 

O  quiet  heart,  the  restless  beat  of  this ! 
Take  thou  the  place  false  friends  have  vacant  left, 
And  bring  thy  bounty  to  repair  the  theft !  " 

So  sighing,  weary  with  the  unsoothed  pain 
From  insect-stings  of  women  and  of  men, 


J32  LYRICS. 

Uneasy  heart  and  ever-baffled  brain, 

I  breathed  the  lonely  beauty  of  the  glen, 
And  from  the  fragrant  shadows  where  she  stood 
Evoked  the  shyest  Dryad  of  the  wood. 

Lo  !  on  a  slanting  rock,  outstretched  at  length, 
A  woodman  lay  in  slumber,  fair  as  death, 

His  limbs  relaxed  in  all  their  supple  strength, 
His  lips  half  parted  with  his  easy  breath, 

And  by  one  gleam  of  hovering  light  caressed 

His  bare  brown  arm  and  white  uncovered  breast. 

"  \Vhy  comes  he  here  ?  "  I  whispered,  treading  soft 
The  hushing  moss  beside  his  flinty  bed  ; 

"  Sweet  are  the  haycocks  in  yon  clover-croft, 

The  meadow  turf  were  light  beneath  his  head : 

Could  he  not  slumber  by  the  orchard-tree, 

And  leave  this  quiet  unprofaned  for  me  ?  " 

But  something  held  my  step.     I  bent,  and  scanned 
(As  one  might  view  a  veiny  agate-stone) 

The  hard,  half-open  fingers  of  his  hand, 

Strong  cords  of  wrist,  knit  round  the  jointed  bone, 


THE  SLEEPER.  133 

And  sunburnt  muscles,  firm  and  full  of  power, 
But  harmless  now  as  petals  of  a  flower. 

There  lay  the  unconscious  Life,  but,  ah  !  more  fair 
Than  ever  blindly  stirred  in  leaf  and  bark,  — 

Warmth,  beauty,  passion,  mystery  everywhere, 
Beyond  the  Dryad's  feebly  burning  spark 

Of  cold  poetic  being :  who  could  say 

If  here  the  angel  or  the  wild  beast  lay  ? 

Then  I  looked  up,  and  read  his  helpless  face  : 
Peace  touched  the  temples  and  the  eyelids,  slept 

On  drooping  lashes,  made  itself  a  place 
In  smiles  that  slowly  to  the  corners  crept 

Of  parting  lips,  and  came  and  went,  to  show 

The  happy  freedom  of  the  heart  below. 

A  holy  rest !  wherein  the  man  became 

Man's  interceding  representative : 
In  Sleep's  white  realm  fell  off  his  mask  of  blame, 

And  he  was  sacred,  for  that  he  did  live. 
His  presence  marred  no  more  the  quiet  deep, 
But  all  the  glen  became  a  shrine  of  Sleep  ! 


1 34  L  YRICS. 

And  then  I  mused :  how  lovely  this  repose  ! 

How  the  shut  sense  its  dwelling  consecrates  ! 
Sleep  guards  itself  against  the  hands  of  fo<js ; 

Its  breath  disarms  the  Envies  and  the  Hates 
Which  haunt  our  lives  :  were  this  mine  enemy, 
My  stealthy  watch  could  not  less  reverent  be ! 

So  hang  their  hands,  that  would  have  done  me  wrong ; 

So  sweet  their  breathing,  whose  unkindly  spite 
Provoked  the  bitter  measures  of  my  song ; 

So  might  they  slumber,  sacred  in  my  sight, 
Or  I  in  theirs  :  —  why  waste  contentious  breath  ? 
Forget,  like  Sleep  ;  and  then  forgive,  like  Death ! 


MY    FARM  :    A    FABLE. 

WlTHIN  a  green  and  pleasant  land 

I  own  a  favorite  plantation, 
Whose  woods  and  meads,  if  rudely  planned, 
Are  still,  at  least,  my  own  creation. 

Some  genial  sun  or  kindly  shower 
Has  here  and  there  wooed  forth  a  flower, 
And  touched  the  fields  with  expectation. 

I  know  what  feeds  the  soil  I  till, 

What  harvest-growth  it  best  produces : 
My  forests  shape  themselves  at  will, 
My  grapes  mature  their  proper  juices. 
I  know  the  brambles  and  the  weeds, 
But  know  the  fruits  and  wholesome  seeds, 
Of  those  the  hurt,  of  these  the  uses. 


136  LYRICS. 

And  working  early,  working  late, 

Directing  crude  and  random  Nature, 
'T  is  joy  to  see  my  small  estate 

Grow  fairer  in  the  slightest  feature. 
If  but  a  single  w. Id-rose  blow, 
Or  fruit-tree  bend  with  April  snow, 
That  day  am  I  the  happiest  creature ! 


Eut  round  the  borders  of  the  land 

Dwell  many  neighbors,  fond  of  roving  ; 
With  curious  eye  and  prying  hand 
About  my  fields  I  see  them  moving. 

Some  tread  my  choicest  herbage  down, 
And  some  of  weeds  would  weave  a  crown, 
And  bid  me  wear  it,  unreproving. 

"  What  trees  !  "  says  one  ;  "  who  ever  saw 

A  grove,  like  this,  of  my  possessing  ? 
This  vale  offends  my  upland's  law ; 

This  sheltered  garden  needs  suppressing. 
My  rocks  this  grass  would  never  yield, 
And  how  absurd  the  level  field  ! 
What  here  will  grow  is  past  my  guessing." 


MY  FARM :  A    FABLE.  137 

"  Behold  the  slope  !  "  another  cries  : 
"  No  sign  of  bog  or  meadow  near  it ! 

A  varied  surface  I  despise  : 

/ 
There  's  not  a  stagnant  pool  to  cheer  it !  " 

"  Why  plough  at  all  ?  "  remarked  a  third. 
"  Heaven  help  the  man  !  "  a  fourth  I  heard,  -r- 
"  His  farm  's  a  jungle  :  let  him  clear  it  I  " 

No  friendly  counsel  I  disdain : 

My  fields  are  free  to  every  comer ; 
Yet  that  which  one  to  praise  is  fain 
But  makes  another's  visage  glummer. 
I  bow  them  out,  and  welcome  in, 
But  while  I  seek  some  truth  to  win 
Goes  by,  unused,  the  golden  summer ! 

Ah !  vain  the  hope  to  find  in  each 

The  wisdom  each  denies  the  other  ; 
These  mazes  of  conflicting  speech 
All  theories  of  culture  smother. 

I  '11  raise  and  reap,  with  honest  hand, 
The  native  harvest  of  my  land  ; 
Do  thou  the  same,  my  wiser  brother  ! 


H ARPOCRATES. 

"  The  rest  is  silence."  —  HAMLET. 
I. 

I  HE  message  of  the  god  I  seek 

In  voice,  in  vision,  or  in  dream, 
Alike  on  frosty  Dorian  peak, 

Or  by  the  slow  Arcadian  stream  : 
Where'er  the  oracle  is  heard, 

I  bow  the  head  and  bend  the  knee  ; 
In  dream,  in  vision,  or  in  word, 

The  sacred  secret  reaches  me. 

II. 

Athwart  the  dim  Trophonian  caves, 
Bat-like,  the  gloomy  whisper  flew ; 

The  lisping  plash  of  Paphian  waves 
Bathed  every  pulse  in  fiery  dew  : 


HARPOCRA  TES.  1 39 

From  Phoebus,  on  his  cloven  hill, 

A  shr.ft  of  beauty  pierced  the  air, 
And  oaks  of  gray  Dodona  still 

Betrayed  the  Thunderer's  presence  there. 

* 
III. 

The  warmth  of  love,  the  grace  of  art, 

The  joys  that  breath  and  blood  express, 
The  desperate  forays  of  the  heart 

Into  an  unknown  wilderness,  — 
All  these  I  know  :  but  sterner  needs 

Demand  the  knowledge  which  must  dower 
The  life  that  on  achievement  feeds, 

The  grand  activity  of  power. 

IV. 

What  each  reveals  the  shadow  throws 

Of  something  unrevealed  behind  ; 
The  Secret's  lips  forever  close 

To  mock  the  secret  unclivined  : 
Thence  late  I  come,  from  weary  dreams 

The  son  of  Isis  to  implore, 
Whose  temple-front  of  granite  gleams 

Across  the  Desert's  yellow  floor. 


140  LYRICS. 

V. 

Lo  !  where  the  sand,  insatiate,  drinks 
The  steady  splendor  of  the  air, 

Crouched  on  her  heavy  paws,  the  Sphinx- 
Looks  forth  with  old,  unwearied  stare  ! 

Behind  her,  on  the  burning  wall, 

The  long  processions  flash  and  glow  : 

The  pillared  shadows  of  the  hall 
Sleep  with  their  lotus-crowns  below. 

VI. 

A  square  of  dark  beyond,  the  door 

Breathes  out  the  deep  adytum's  gloom  : 
I  cross  the  court's  deserted  floor, 

And  stand  within  the  sacred  room. 
The  priests  repose  from  finished  rite  ; 

No  echo  rings  from  pavements  trod  ; 
And  sits  alone,  in  swarthy  light, 

The  naked  child,  the  temple's  god. 


No  sceptre,  orb,  or  mystic  toy 

Proclaims  his  godship,  young  and  warm 


HARPOCRA  TES.  14  < 

He  sits  alone,  a  naked  boy, 

Clad  in  the  beauty  of  his  form. 
Dark,  solemn  stars,  of  radiance  mild, 

His  eyes  illume  the  golden  shade, 
And  sweetest  lips  that  never  smiled 

The  finger  hushes,  on  them  laid. 

VIII. 

O,  never  yet  in  trance  or  dream 

That  falls  when  crowned  desire  has  died, 
So  breathed  the  air  of  power  supreme, 

So  breathed,  and  calmed,  and  satisfied  ! 
Those  mystic  lips  were  not  unsealed 

The  temple's  awful  hush  to  break, 
But  unto  inmost  sense  revealed, 

The  deity  his  message  spake  : 

IX. 

"  If  me  thou  knowest,  stretch  thy  hand 
And  my  possessions  thou  shalt  reach  : 

I  grant  no  help,  I  break  no  band, 
I  sit  above  the  gods  that  teach. 

The  latest-born,  my  realm  includes 

The  old,  the  strong,  the  near,  the  far,  — 


142  LYRICS. 


Serene  beyond  their  changeful  moods, 
And  fixed  as  Night's  unmoving  star. 


X. 

"  A  child,  I  leave  the  dance  of  Earth 

To  be  my  horned  mother's  care  : 
My  father  Ammon's  B.icchic  mirth, 

Delighting  gods,  I  may  not  share. 
I  turn  from  Beauty,  Love,  and  Power, 

In  singing  vale,  on  laughing  sea  ; 
From  Youth  and  Hope,  and  wait  the  hour 

When  weary  Knowledge  turns  to  me. 


XL 

"  Beneath  my  hand  the  sacred  springs 

Of  Man's  mysterious  being  burst, 
And  Death  within  my  shadow  brings 

The  last  of  life,  to  greet  the  first. 
There  is  no  god,  or  grand  or  fair, 

On  Orcan  or  Olympian  field, 
But  must  to  me  his  treasures  bear, 

His  one  peculiar  secret  yield. 


HA  RPOCRA  TES.  1 43 

XII. 

"  I  wear  no  garment,  drop  no  shade 

Before  the  eyes  that  all  things  see  ; 
My  worshippers,  howe'er  arrayed, 

Come  in  their  nakedness  to  me. 
The  forms  of  life  like  gilded  towers 

May  soar,  in  air  and  sunshine  drest,  — 
The  home  of  Passions  and  of  Powers,  — 

Yet  mine  the  crypts  whereon  they  rest. 


XIII. 

"  Embracing  all,  sustaining  all, 

Consoling  with  unuttered  lore, 
Who  finds  me  in  my  voiceless  hall 

Shall  need  the  oracles  no  more. 
I  am  the  knowledge  that  insures 

Peace,  after  Thought's  bewildering  range 
I  am  the  patience  that  endures  ; 

I  am  the  truth  that  cannot  change !  " 


RUN    WILD. 

HERE  was  the  gate.     The  broken  paling, 

As  if  before  the  wind,  inclines, 
The  posts  ha^f  rotted,  and  the  pickets,  failing, 
Held  only  up  by  vines. 

The  plum-trees  stand,  though  gnarled  and  speckled 

With  leprosy  of  old  disease  ; 
By  cells  of  wormy  life  the  trunks  are  freckled, 
And  moss  enfolds  their  knees. 

I  push  aside  the  boughs  and  enter : 

Alas  !  the  garden's  nymph  has  fled, 
With  every  charm  that  leaf  and  blossom  lent  her, 
And  left  a  hag  instead. 


RCN   WILD.  145 

Some  female  satyr  from  the  thicket, 

Child  of  the  bramble  and  the  weed, 
Sprang  shouting  over  the  unguarded  wicket 
With  all  her  savage  breed. 

She  banished  hence  the  ordered  graces 

That  smoothed  a  way  for  Beauty's  feet, 
And  gave  her  ugliest  imps  the  vacant  places, 
To  spoil  what  once  was  sweet. 

Here,  under  rankling  mulleins,  dwindle 

The  borders,  hidden  long  ago  ; 
Here  shoots  the  dock  in  many  a  rusty  spindle, 
And  purslane  creeps  below. 

The  thyme  runs  wild,  and  vainly  sweetens, 
Hid  from  its  bees,  the  conquering  grass ; 
And  even  the  rose  with  briery  menace  threatens 
To  tear  me  as  I  pass. 

Where  show  the  weeds  a  grayer  color, 

The  stalks  of  lavender  and  rue 
Stretch  like  imploring  arms,  —  but,  ever  duller, 
They  slowly  perish  too. 
7  J 


146  LYRICS. 

Only  the  pear-tree's  fruitless  scion 
Exults  above  the  garden's  fall ; 
Only  the  thick-maned  ivy,  like  a  lion, 
Devours  the  crumbling  wall. 

What  still  survives  becomes  as  savage 

As  that  which  entered  to  destroy, 
Taking  an  air  of  riot  and  of  ravage, 
Of  strange  and  wanton  joy. 

No  copse  unpruned,  no  mountain  hollow, 

So  lawless  in  its  growth  may  be : 
Where  the  wild  weeds  have  room  to  chase  and  follow, 
They  graceful  are,  and  free. 

But  Nature  here  attempts  revenges 

For  her  obedience  unto  toil ; 

She  brings  her  rankest  life  with  loathsome  changes 
To  smite  the  fattened  soil. 

For  herbs  of  sweet  and  wholesome  savor 

She  plants  her  stems  of  bitter  juice  ; 
From  flowers  she  steals  the  scent,  from  fruits  the  flavor 
From  homelier  things  the  use. 


RUN   WILD.  147 

Her  angel  is  a  mocking  devil, 

If  once  the  law  relax  its  bands  ; 
In  Man's  neglected  fields  she  holds  her  revel, 
Takes  back,  and  spoils  his  lands. 

Once  having  broken  ground,  he  never 

The  virgin  sod  can  plant  again  : 
The  soil  demands  his  services  forever,  — 
And  God  gives  sun  and  rain ! 


'CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS." 


JK.ETURNED  to  warm  existence,  —  even  as  one 
Sentenced,  then  blotted  from  the  headsman's  book, 
Accepts  with  doubt  the  life  again  begun, — 
I  leave  the  duress  of  my  couch,  and  look 
Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  to  the  sun. 

A  fate  like  Farinata's  held  me  fast 

In  some  devouring  pit  of  fever-fire, 

Until,  from  ceaseless  forms  of  toil  that  cast 

Their  will  upon  me,  whirled  in  endless  gyre, 

The  Spirit  of  the  House  brought  help  at  last. 

With  Giotto  wrestling,  through  the  desperate  hours 

A  thousand  crowded  frescos  must  I  paint, 

Or  snatch  from  twilights  dim,  and  dusky  bowers, 

Alternate  forms  of  bacchanal  and  saint, 

The  streets  of  Florence  and  her  beauteous  towers. 


"CASA    GUIDI   WINDOWS."  149 

Weak,  wasted  with  those  torments  of  the  brain, 
The  circles  of  the  Tuscan  master's  hell 
Were  dreams  no  more  ;  but  when  their  fiery  strain 
Was  fiercest,  deep  and  sudden  stillness  fell 
Athwart  the  storm,  and  all  was  peace  again. 

She  came,  whom  Casa  Guidi's  chambers  knew, 
And  know  more  proudly,  an  Immortal,  now ; 
The  air  without  a  star  was  shivered  through 
With  the  resistless  radiance  of  her  brow, 
And  glimmering  landscapes  from  the  darkness  grew. 

Thin,  phantom  like ;  and  yet  she  brought  me  rest. 
Unspoken  words,  an  understood  command 
Sealed  weary  lids  with  sleep,  together  pressed 
In  clasping  quiet  wandering  hand  to  hand, 
And  smoothed  the  folded  cloth  above  the  breast. 

Now,  looking  through  these  windows,  where  the  day 
Shines  on  a  terrace  splendid  with  the  gold 
Of  autumn  shrubs,  and  green  with  glossy  bay, 
Once  more  her  face,  re-made  from  dust,  I  hold 
In  light  so  clear  it  cannot  pass  away  :  — 


0  LYRICS. 

The  quiet  brow  ;  the  face  so  frail  and  fair 
For  such  a  voice  of  song  ;  the  steady  eye, 
Where  shone  the  spirit  fated  to  outwear 
Its  fragile  house  ;  —  and  on  her  features  lie 
The  soft  half- shadows  of  her  drooping  hair. 

Who  could  forget  those  features,  having  known  i 
Whose  memory  do  his  kindling  reverence  wrong 
That  heard  the  soft  Ionian  flute,  whose  tone 
Changed  with  the  silver  trumpet  of  her  song  ? 
No  sweeter  airs  from  woman's  lips  were  blown. 

Ah,  in  the  silence  she  has  left  behind 
How  many  a  sorrowing  voice  of  life  is  still ! 
Songless  she  left  the  land  that  cannot  find 
Song  for  its  heroes  ;  and  the  Roman  hill, 
Once  free,  shall  for  her  ghost  the  laurel  wind. 

The  tablet  tells  you,  "  Here  she  wrote  and  died," 
And  grateful  Florence  bids  the  record  stand : 
Here  bend  Italian  love  and  English  pride 
Above  her  grave,  —  and  one  remoter  land, 
Free  as  her  prayers  would  make  it,  at  their  side. 


"CAS A  GUIDI  WINDOWS:"*  15 

I  will  not  doubt  the  vision  :  yonder  see 

The  moving  clouds  that  speak  of  freedom  won  ! 

• 
And  life,  new-lighted,  with  a  lark-like  glee 

Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  hails  the  sun, 
Grown  from  the  rest  her  spirit  gave  to  me. 


FLORENCE,  1867. 


THE    GUESTS     OF    NIGHT 

1    RIDE  in  a  gloomy  land, 

I  travel  a  ghostly  shore,  — 
Shadows  on  either  hand, 

Darkness  behind  and  before  ; 
Veils  of  the  summer  night 

Dusking  the  woods  I  know  ; 
A  whisper  haunts  the  height, 

And  the  rivulet  croons  below. 


A  waft  from  the  roadside  bank 

Tells  where  the  wild-rose  nods  ; 
The  hollows  are  heavy  and  dank 

With  the  steam  of  the  golden-rods  : 
Incense  of  Night  and  Death, 

Odors  of  Life  and  Day, 
Meet  and  mix  in  a  bre.ith, 

Drug  me,  and  lapse  away. 


THE  GUESTS  OF  NIGHT.  153 

Is  it  the  hand  of  the  Past, 

Stretched  from  its  open  tomb, 
Or  a  spell  from  thy  glamoury  cast, 

O  mellow  and  mystic  gloom  ? 
All,  wherein  I  have  part, 

All  that  was  loss  or  gain, 
Slips  from  the  clasping  heart, 

Breaks  from  the  grasping  brain. 


Lo,  what  is  left  ?     I  am  bare 

As  a  new-born  soul,  —  I  am  naught ; 
My  deeds  are  as  dust  in  air, 

My  words  are  as  ghosts  of  thought 
I  ride  through  the  night  alone, 

Detached  from  the  life  that  seemed, 
And  the  best  I  have  felt  or  known 

Is  less  than  the  least  I  dreamed. 


But  the  Night,  like  Agrippa's  glass, 
Now,  as  I  question  it,  clears ; 

Over  its  vacancy  pass 

The  shapes  of  the  crowded  years  ; 

7* 


LYRICS. 

Meanest  and  most  august, 

Hated  or  loved,  I  see 
The  dead  that  have  long  been  dust, 

The  living,  so  dead  to  me ! 


Place  in  the  world's  applause  ? 

Nay,  there  is  nothing  there  ! 
Strength  from  unyielding  laws  ? 

A  gleam,  and  the  glass  is  bare. 
The  lines  of  a  life  in  song? 

Faint  runes  on  the  rocks  of  time  ? 
I  see  but  a  formless  throng 

Of  shadows  that  fall  or  climb. 


What  else  ?     Am  I  then  despoiled 

Of  the  garments  I  wove  and  wore? 
Have  I  so  refrained  and  toiled, 

To  find  there  is  naught  in  store  ? 
I  have  loved,  —  I  love  !     Behold, 

How  the  steady  pictures  rise  ! 
And  the  shadows  are  pierced  with  gold 

From  the  stars  of  immortal  eyes. 


THE   GUESTS  OF  NIGHT.  155 

Nearest  or  most  remote, 

But  dearest,  hath  none  delayed  ; 
And  the  spirits  of  kisses  float 

O'er  the  lips  that  never  fade. 
The  Night  each  guest  denies 

Of  the  hand  or  haughty  brain, 
But  the  loves  that  were,  arise, 

And  the  loves  that  are,  remain. 


CHANT. 

FOR    THE    BRYANT    FESTIVAL. 

November  5,  1864. 

ONE  hour  be  silent,  sounds  of  war  ! 

Delay  the  battle  he  foretold, 
And  let  the  Bard's  triumphant  star 

Send  down  from  heaven  its  milder  gold ! 

Let  Fame,  that  plucks  but  laurel  now 

For  loyal  heroes,  turn  away, 
And  twine,  to  crown  our  poet's  brow, 

The  greener  garland  of  the  bay. 

For  he,  our  earliest  minstrel,  fills 
The  land  with  echoes,  sweet  and  long, 

Gives  language  to  her  silent  hills, 
And  bids  her  rivers  move  to  sons. 


CHANT.  157 

The  Phosphor  of  the  Nation's  dawn, 
Sole-risen  above  our  tuneless  coast, 

As  Hesper,  now,  his  lamp  burns  on,  — 
The  leader  of  the  starry  host. 

He  sings  of  mountains  and  of  streams, 
Of  stoned  field  and  haunted  dale, 

Yet  hears  a  voice  through  all  his  dreams, 
Which  says:  "The  Good  shall  yet  prevail." 

He  sings  of  Truth,  he  sings  of  Right ; 

He  sings  of  Freedom,  and  his  strains 
March  with  our  armies  to  the  fight, 

Ring  in  the  bondman's  falling  chains. 

God,  bid  him  live,  till  in  her  place 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  again  shall  rise,  — 

The  "  mother  of  a  mighty  race  " 
Fulfil  her  poet's  prophecies  ! 


IMPROVISATIONS. 

i. 

THROUGH  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night 

My  fancies  fly  to  thee  : 
Through  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night, 

Alone,  I  cry  to  thee. 

For  the  stars  bring  presages 
Of  love,  and  of  love's  delight : 

Let  them  bear  my  messages 
Through  the  lonely  halls  of  the  night ! 

In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn 

Thou  com'st  anew  to  me : 
In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn, 

Say,  art  thou  true  to  me  ? 

If  dreams  have  shaken  thee 
With  the  call  thou  canst  not  scorn, 

Let  Love  awaken  thee 
In  the  golden  porch  of  the  morn  ! 


IMPRO  VISA  TIONS.  1 5 9 

II. 

The  rose  of  your  cheek  is  precious  ; 

Your  eyes  are  warmer  than  wine  ; 
Yow  catch  men's  souls  in  the  meshes 

Of  curls  that  ripple  and  shine  — 
But,  ah  !  not  mine. 

Your  lips  are  a  sweet  persuasion  ; 

Your  bosom  a  sleeping  sea  ; 
Your  voice,  with  its  fond  evasion, 

Is  a  call  and  a  charm  to  me  ; 
But  I  am  free  ! 

As  the  white  moon  lifts  the  waters, 

You  lift  the  passions,  and  lead  ; 
As  a  chieftainess  proud  with  slaughters, 

You  smile  on  the  hearts  that  bleed  : 
But  I  take  heed  ! 


III. 

Come  to  me,  Lalage  ! 
Girl  of  the  flying  feet, 


160  LYRICS. 

Girl  of  the  tossing  hnir 

And  the  red  mouth,  small  and  sweet ; 

Less  of  the  earth  than  air, 

So  witchingly  fond  and  fair, 

Lai  age !  » 

Touch  me,  Lalage ! 
Girl  of  the  soft  white  hand, 
Girl  of  the  low  white  brow 
And  the  roseate  bosom  band  ; 
Bloom  from  an  orchard  bough 
Less  downy-soft  than  thou, 
Lalage ! 

Kiss  me,  Lalage ! 

Girl  of  the  fragrant  breath, 

Girl  of  the  sun  of  May ; 

As  a  bird  that  flutters  in  death, 

My  fluttering  pulses  say  : 

If  thou  be  Death,  yet  stay, 

Lalage  ! 


LMPRO  VISA  TIONS.  1 6 1 

IV. 

What  if   I   couch  in  the  grass,  or  listlessly  rock  oil  the 

waters  ? 

If  in  the  market  I  stroll,  sit  by  the  beakers  of  wine? 
Witched  by  the  fold  of  a  cloud,  the  flush  of  a  meadow  in 

blossom, 
Soothed  by  the  amorous  airs,  touched  by  the  lips  of  the 

dew? 
First   must   be    color   and    odor,   the   simple,   unmingled 

sensation, 

Then,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  apples  and  honey  and  grain. 
You,    reversing    the    order,    your   barren    and   withering 

branches 
Vainly  will  shake  in  the  winds,  mine  hanging  heavy  with 

gold! 


V. 

Though  thy  constant  love  I  share, 

Yet  its  gift  is  rarer ; 
In  my  youth  I  thought  thee  fair ; 

Thou  art  older  and  fairer ! 

K 


1 62  LYRICS. 

Full  of  more  than  young  delight 
Now  day  and  night  are  ; 

For  the  presence,  then  so  bright, 
Is  closer,  brighter. 

In  the  haste  of  youth  we  miss 
Its  best  of  blisses  : 

Sweeter  than  the  stolen  kiss 
Are  the  granted  kisses. 

Dearer  than  the  words  that  hide 

The  love  abiding, 
Are  the  words  that  fondly  chide, 

When  love  needs  chiding. 

Higher  than  the  perfect  song 
For  which  love  longeth, 

Is  the  tender  fear  of  wrong, 
That  never  wrongeth. 

She  whom  youth  alone  makes  dear 
May  awhile  seem  nearer : 

Thou  art  mine  so  many  a  year, 
The  older,  the  dearer ! 


IMPRO  VISA  TIONS.  1 63 

VI. 

A  grass-blade  is  my  warlike  lance, 

A  rose-leaf  is  my  shield  ; 
Beams  of  the  sun  are,  every  one, 

My  chargers  for  the  field. 

The  morning  gives  me  golden  steeds, 

The  moon  gives  silver-white  ; 
The  stars  drop  down,  my  helm  to  crown, 

When  I  go  forth  to  fight. 

Against  me  ride  in  iron  mail 

The  squadrons  of  the  foe : 
The  bucklers  flash,  the  maces  crash, 

The  haughty  trumpets  blow. 

One  touch,  and  all,  with  armor  cleft, 

Before  me  turn  and  yield. 
Straight  on  I  ride  :  the  world  is  wide  ; 

A  rose-leaf  is  my  shield  ! 

Then  dances  o'er  the  water-fall 
The  rainbow,  in  its  glee ; 


The  daisy  sings,  the  lily  rings 
Her  bells  of  victory. 

So  am  I  armed  where'er  I  go, 

o     * 

And  mounted,  night  or  day : 
Who  shall  oppose  the  conquering  rose, 
And  who  the  sunbeam  slay  ? 

VII. 

The  star  o'  the  morn  is  whitest, 
The  bosom  of  dawn  is  brightest ; 

The  dew  is  sown, 

And  the  blossom  blown 
Wherein  thou,  my  Dear,  delightest ! 

Hark,  I  have  risen  before  thee, 
That  the  spell  of  the  day  be  o'er  thee ; 
Tfiat  the  flush  of  my  love 
May  fall  from  above,  . 

And,  mixed  with  the  morn,  adore  thee! 

Dark  dreams  must  now  forsake  thee, 
And  the  bliss  of  thy  being  take  thee ! 


IMPRO  VISA  TIONS.  1 65 

Let  the  beauty  of  morn 
In  thine  eyes  be  born, 
And  the  thought  of  me  awake  thee  ! 

Come  forth  to  hear  thy  praises, 
Which  the  wakening  world  upraises ; 

Let  thy  hair  be  spun 

With  the  gold  o'  the  sun, 
And  thy  feet  be  kissed  by  the  daisies  ! 


VIII. 

Near  in  the  forest 
I  know  a  glade  ; 

Under  the  tree-tops 
A  secret  shade ! 

Vines  are  the  curtains, 
Blossoms  the  floor  ; 

Voices  of  waters 
Sing  evermore. 

There,  when  the  sunset's 
Lances  of  gold 


LYRICS. 

Pierce,  or  the  moonlight 
Is  silvery  cold, 

Would  that  an  angel 
Led  thee  to  me  — 

So,  out  of  loneliness 
Love  should  be  ! 

Never  the  breezes 

Should  lisp  what  we  say 
Never  the  waters 

Our  secret  betray  ! 

Silence  and  shadow, 
After,  might  reign  ; 

But  the  old  life  be  ours 
Never  again  ! 


CANOPUS. 

A    LEAF    FROM   THE   PAST. 

ABOVE  the  palms,  the  peaks  of  pearly  gray 

That  hang,  like  dreams,  along  the  slumbering  skies, 
An  urn  of  fire  that  never  burns  away, 
I  see  Canopus  rise. 

An  urn  of  light,  a  golden-hearted  torch, 

Voluptuous,  drowsy-throbbing  mid  the  stars, 
As,  incense-fed,  from  Aphrodite's  porch 
Lifted,  to  beacon  Mars. 

Is  it  from  songs  and  stories  of  the  Past, 

With  names  and  scenes  that  make  our  planet  fair,  - 
From  Babylonian  splendors,  vague  and  vast, 
And  flushed  Arabian  air  :  — 


i68  L 

Or  sprung  from  richer  longings  of  the  brain 
And  spices  of  the  blood,  this  hot  desire 
To  lie  beneath  that  mellow  lamp  again 
And  breathe  its  languid  fire  ? 

From  tales  of  nights  when  watching  David  saw 

Its  amorous  ray  on  bright  Bathsheba's  head ; 
Or  Charmian  stole,  the  golden  gauze  to  draw 
Round  Cleopatra's  bed  ? 

Or  when  white-breasted  Paris  touched  the  lone 
Laconian  isle,  where  stayed  his  flying  oars, 
And  Helen  breathed  the  scent  of  violets,  blown 
Along  the  bosky  shores? 

Or  Kalidasa's  maiden,  wandering  through 

The  moonlit  jungles  of  the  Indian  lands, 
While  shamed  mimosas  from  her  form  withdrew 
Their  thin  and  trembling  hands  ? 

For  Fancy  takes  from  Passion  power  to  build 

A  brighter  fane  than  bloodless  Thought  decrees, 
And  loves  to  see  its  spacious  chambers  filled 
With  tropic  tapestries. 


CANOPUS.  169 

And,  past  those  halls  which  for  itself  the  mind 
Builds,  permanent  as  marble,  and  as  cold, 
In  warm  surprises  of  the  blood  we  find 

The  sumptuous  dream  unfold ! 

There  shines  the  leaf  and  bursts  the  blossom  sheath 

On  hills  deep-mantled  in  eternal  June, 
Or  wave  their  whispering  silver,  underneath 
The  rainbow-cinctured  moon. 

Around  the  pillars  of  the  palm-tree  bower 

The  orchids  cling,  in  rose  and  purple  spheres  ; 
Shield-broad  the  lily  floats  ;  the  aloe  flower 
Foredates  its  hundred  years. 

Along  the  lines  of  coral,  white  and  warm, 

Breaks  the  white  surf ;  hushed  is  the  glassy  air, 
And  only  mellower  murmurs  tell  that  storm 
Is  raging  otherwhere. 

The  mansion  gleams  with  dome  and  arch  Moresque  — 

Ah,  bliss  to  lie  beside  the  jasper  urn 
Of  founts,  and  through  the  open  arabesque 
To  watch  Canopus  burn  ! 


1 70  LYRICS. 

To  sit  at  feasts,  and  fluid  odors  drain 

Of  daintiest  nectar  that  from  grape  is  caught, 
While  faint  narcotics  cheat  the  idle  brain 

With  phantom  shapes  of  thought ; 

Or,  listening  to  the  sweet,  seductive  voice, 

No  will  hath  silenced,  since  the  world  began, 
To  weigh  delight  unchallenged,  making  choice 
Of  earlier  joys  of  man  ! 

Permit  the  dream  :  our  natures  twofold  are. 

Sense  hath  its  own  ideals,  which  prepare 
A  rosy  background  for  the  soul's  white  star, 
Whereon  it  shines  more  fair. 

Not  crystal  runs,  dissolved  from  mountain  snow, 
The  poet's  blood  ;  but  amber,  musk,  impart 
Their  scents,  and  gems  their  orbed  or  shivered  glow, 
To  feed  his  tropic  heart. 

While  Form  and  Color  undivorced  remain 

In  ever}'  planet  gilded  by  the  sun, 
His  craft  shall  forge  the  radiant  marriage  chain 

That  makes  them  purely  One  ! 
1865. 


CU  PI  D  O. 

THE  REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANTIQUATED  FIGURE,  AFTER  READING  THE 
VIEWS  OF  CERTAIN  WOMEN  ON  MARRIAGE  AND  DIVORCE. 

I. 

ROSEATE  darling, 
Dimpled  with  laughter, 
Nursed  on  the  bosom 
Pierced  by  thee  after  ; 
Fed  with  the  rarest 
Milk  of  the  fairest 
Fond  Aphrodite, 
Child  as  thou  art,  as  a  god  thou  art  mighty! 


II. 

Thou  art  the  only 
Demigod  left  us  ; 
Fate  hath  bereft  us, 
Science  made  lonely. 


I72  LYRICS. 

Visions  and  fables 
Shrink  from  our  portals  ; 
Long  have  we  banished 
The  stately  Immortals  ; 
Yet,  when  we  sent  them 
Trooping  to  Hades  — 
Olympian  gentlemen, 
Paphian  ladies  — 
Thou  hadst  re-risen, 
Ere  the  dark  prison 
Closed  for  the  last  time, 
Slipped  from  the  gate  and  returned  to  thy  pastime  ! 


in. 

Ever  a  mystery, 
All  of  our  history 
Brightens  with  thee  ! 
Systems  have  chained  us, 
Rulers  restrained  us, 
Fortune  disdained  us, 
Still  thou  wert  free  ! 
Lofty  or  lowly, 
Brutish  or  holv, 


CUP  I  DO.  1/3 

Spacious  or  narrow, 
Never  a  life  was  secure  from  thy  arrow ! 


IV. 

Ah,  but  they  Ve  told  us 
Love  is  a  system  ! 
They  would  withhold  us 
When  we  have  kissed  him  ! 
All  that  perplexes 
Sweetly  the  sexes 
They  would  control, 
And  with  Affinity 
Drive  the  Divinity 
Out  of  the  soul ! 
Better,  they  say,  is 
Phryne  or  Lais 
Than  the  immutable 
Faith,  and  its  suitable 
Vow,  he  hath  taught  us  ; 
Foolish  the  tender 
Pang,  the  surrender, 
When  he  has  caught  us  ; 
Fancies  and  fetters  are  all  he  has  brought  us. 


174  LYRICS. 

V. 

Future  parental, 
Physical,  mental 
Laws  they  prescribe  us  ; 
And  with  ecstatic 
Strict  mathematic 
Blisses  would  bribe  us. 
Alkali,  acid, 
They  with  a  placid 
Mien  would  unite, 
And  the  wild  rapture 
Of  chasing  and  capture 
Curb  with  a  right  ; 
Measuring,  dealing 
Even  the  kiss  of  the  twilight  of  feeling  ! 


VI. 

Who  shall  deliver 
Thee  from  their  credo  ? 
Rent  is  thy  quiver, 
Darling  Cupido  ! 


CUPIDO.  17S 

Naked,  yet  blameless, 
Tricksily  aimless, 
Secretly  sure, 
Who,  then,  thy  plighting, 
Wilful  uniting, 
Now  will  endure  ? 
Now,  when  experiment 
Based  upon  Science 
Sets  at  defiance, 
Harshly,  thy  merriment, 
Who  shall  caress  thee 
Warm  in  his  bosom,  and  bliss  thee  and  bless  thee  ? 


VII. 

Ever  't  is  May-time  ! 
Ever  't  is  play-time 
Of  Beauty  and  Youth  ! 
Freed  from  confusion, 
Hides  in  illusion 
Nature  her  truth. 
Books  and  discourses, 
What  can  they  tell  us  ? 
Blood  with  its  forces 


LYRICS. 

Still  will  compel  us  ! 
Cold  ones  may  fly  to 
Systems,  or  try  to  ; 
Innocent  fancy 
Still  will  enwind  us, 
Love's  necromancy, 
Snare  us'and  bind  us, 
Systems  and  rights  lie  forgotten  behind  us. 


SONNET. 

WHO,  harnessed  in  his  mail  of  Self,  demands 

To  be  men's  master  and  their  sovran  guide  ?  — 

Proclaims  his  place,  and  by  sole  right  of  pride 

A  candidate  for  love  and  reverence  stands, 

As  if  the  power  within  his  empty  hands 

Had  fallen  from  the  sky,  with  all  beside, 

So  oft  to  longing  and  to  toil  denied, 

That  makes  the  leaders  and  the  lords  of  lands  ? 

He  who  would  lead  must  first  himself  be  led  ; 

Who  would  be  loved  be  capable  of  love 

Beyond  the  utmost  he  receives  ;  who  claims 

The  rod  of  power  must  first  have  bowed  his  head, 

And,  being  honored,  honor  what 's  above  : 

This  know  the  men  who  leave  the  world  their  names. 


8 


FROM    THE    NORTH. 

vJNCE  more  without  you  !     Sighing,  Dear,  once  more, 

For  all  the  sweet,  accustomed  ministries 

Of  wife  and  mother :  not  as  when  the  seas 

That  parted  us  my  tender  message  bore 

From  the  gray  olives  of  the  Cretan  shore 

To  those  that  hide  the  broken  Phidian  frieze 

Of  our  Athenian  home,  — but  far  degrees, 

Wide  plains,  great  forests,  part  us  now.     My  door 

Looks  on  the  rushing  Neva,  cold  and  clear  : 

The  swelling  domes  in  hovering  splendor  lie 

Like  golden  bubbles,  eager  to  be  gone  ; 

But  the  chill  crystal  of  the  atmosphere 

Withholds  them,  and  along  the  northern  sky 

The  amber  midnight  smiles  in  dreams  of  dawn. 


A    WEDDING    SONNET. 

TO    T.    B.    A.    AND    L.    W. 

oAD  Autumn,  drop  thy  weedy  crown  forlorn, 

Put  off  thy  cloak  of  cloud,  thy  scarf  of  mist, 

And  dress  in  gauzy  gold  and  amethyst 

A  day  benign,  of  sunniest  influence  born, 

A*s  may  befit  a  Poet's  marriage  morn ! 

Give  buds  another  dream,  another  tryst 

To  loving  hearts,  and  print  on  lips  unkissed 

Betrothal-kisses,  laughing  Spring  to  scorn  ! 

Yet,  if  unfriendly  thou,  with  sullen  skies, 

Bleak  rains,  or  moaning  winds,  dost  menace  wrong, 

Here  art  thou  foiled :  a  bridal  sun  shall  rise 

And  bridal  emblems  unto  these  belong. 

Round  her  the  sunshine  of  her  beauty  lies, 

And  breathes  round  him  the  spring-time  of  his  song ! 


CHRISTMAS    SONNETS. 


I. 

TO    G.    H.    B. 


I F  that  my  hand,  like  yours,  dear  George,  were  skilled 

To  win  from  Wordsworth's  scanty  plot  of  ground 

A  shining  harvest,  such  as  you  have  found, 

Where  strength  and  grace,  fraternally  fulfilled,      , 

As  in  those  sheaves  whose  rustling  glories  gild 

The  hills  of  August,  folded  are,  and  bound  ; 

So  would  I  draw  my  loving  tillage  round 

Its  borders,  bid  the  gentlest  rains  be  spilled, 

The  goldenest  suns  its  happy  growth  compel, 

And  bind  for  you  the  ripe,  redundant  grain  : 

But,  ah !  you  stand  amid  your  songful  sheaves, 

So  rich,  this  weed-born  flower  you  might  disdain, 

Save  that  of  me  its  growtji  and  color  tell, 

And  of  my  love  some  perfume  haunt  its  leaves ! 


CHRISTMAS  SONNETS.  l8l 


II. 


TO    R.    H.    S. 

1  HE  years  go  by,  old  PYiend  !     Each,  as  it  fleets, 

Moves  to  a  farther,  fairer  realm,  the  time 

When  first  we  twain  the  pleasant  land  of  Rhyme 

Discovered,  choosing  side  by  side  our  seats 

Below  our  separate  Gods  :  in  midnight  streets 

And  haunted  attics  flattered  by  the  chime 

Of  silver  words,  and,  fed  by  faith  sublime, 

I  Shelley's  mantle  wore,  you  that  of  Keats,  — 

Dear  dreams,  that  marked  the  Muse's  childhood  then, 

Nor  now  to  be  disowned  !     The  years  go  by ; 

The  clear-eyed  Goddess  flatters  us  no  more  ; 

And  yet,  I  think,  in  soberer  aims  of  men, 

And  Song's  severer  service,  you  and  I 

Are  nearer,  dearer,  faithfuller  than  before. 


1 82  LYRICS. 


III. 


TO    E.    C.    S. 

\\  HEN  days  were  long,  and  o'er  that  farm  of  mine, 

Green  Cedarcroft,  the  summer  breezes  blew, 

And  from  the  walnut  shadows  I  and  you, 

Dear  Edmund,  saw  the  red  lawn-roses  shine, 

Or  followed  our  idyllic  Brandywine 

Through  meadows  flecked  with  many  a  flowery  hue, 

To  where  with  wild  Arcadian  pomp  I  drew 

Your  Bacchic  march  among  the  startled  kine, 

You  gave  me,  linked  with  old  Mreonides, 

Your  loving  sonnet,  —  record  dear  and  true 

Of  days  as  dear :  and  now,  when  suns  are  brief, 

And  Christmas  snows  are  on  the  naked  trees, 

I  give  you  this,  —  a  withered  winter  leaf, 

Yet  with  your  blossom  from  one  root  it  grew. 


CHRISTMAS  SONNETS.  183 


IV. 


TO  J.    L.    G. 

I F  I  could  touch  with  Petrarch's  pen  this  strain 
Of  graver  song,  and  shape  to  liquid  flow 
Of  soft  Italian  syllables  the  glow 
That  warms  my  heart,  my  tribute  were  not  vain : 
But  how  shall  I  such  measured  sweetness  gain 
As  may  your  golden  nature  fitly  show, 
And  wfth  the  heart-light  shine,  that  fills  you  so, 
It  pales  the  graces  of  the  cultured  brain  ? 
Long  have  I  known,  Love  better  is  than  Fame, 
And  Love  hath  crowned  you  :  yet  if  any  bay 
Cling  to  my  chaplet  when  the  years  have  fled, 
And  I  am  dust,  may  this  which  bears  your  name 
Cling  latest,  that  my  love's  result  shall  stay 
When  that  which  mine  ambition  wrought  is  dead  ! 


A    STATESMAN. 

11 E  knew  the  mask  of  principle  to  wear, 
And  power  accept  while  seeming  to  decline : 
So  cunningly  he  wrought,  with  tools  so  fine, 
Setting  his  courses  with  so  frank  an  air, 
(Yet  most  secure  when  seeming  most  to  dare,) 
He  did  deceive  us  all :  with  mien  benijm 

o 

His  malice  smiled,  his  cowardice  the  sign 
Of  courage  took,  his  selfishness  grew  fair, 
So  deftly  could  his  foiled  ambition  show 
As  modest  acquiescence.     Now,  't  is  clear 
What  man  he  is,  —  how  false  his  high  report ; 
Mean  to  the  friend,  caressing  to  the  foe  ; 
Plotting  the  mischief  which  he  feigns  to  fear  : 
Chief  Eunuch,  were  but  ours  the  Sultan's  court ! 


ODES. 


ODES. 


GETTYSBURG    ODE. 

DEDICATION  OF  THE  NATIONAL  MONUMENT,  JULY  i,  1869. 

I. 

AFTER  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake 
Here,  from  the  shadows  of  impending  death, 

Those  words  of  solemn  breath, 

What  voice  may  fitly  break 
The  silence,  doubly  hallowed,  left  by  him  ? 
We  can  but  bow  the  head,  with  eyes  grown  dim, 

And,  as  a  Nation's  litany,  repeat 
The  phrase  his  martyrdom  hath  made  complete, 
Noble  as  then,  but  now  more  sadly-sweet : 
"  Let  us,  the  Living,  rather  dedicate 
Ourselves  to  the  unfinished  work,  which  they 
Thus  far  advanced  so  nobly  on  its  way, 

And  save  the  perilled  State  ! 


1 88  ODES. 

Let  us,  upon  this  field  where  they,  the  brave, 
Their  last  full  measure  of  devotion  gave, 
Highly  resolve  they  have  not  died  in  vain  !  — 
That,  under  God,  the  Nation's  later  birth 

Of  Freedom,  and  the  people's  gain 
Of  their  own  Sovereignty,  shall  never  wane 
And  perish  from  the  circle  of  the  earth  !  " 
From  such  a  perfect  text,  shall  Song  aspire 

To  light  her  faded  fire, 
And  into  wandering  music  turn 
Its  virtue,  simple,  sorrowful  and  stern? 
His  voice  all  elegies  anticipated  ; 
For,  whatsoe'er  the  strain, 
We  hear  that  one  refrain  : 
"We  consecrate  ourselves  to  them,  the  Consecrated  ! 


II. 

After  the  thunder-storm  our  heaven  is  blue  : 
Far-off,  along  the  borders  of  the  sky, 
In  silver  folds  the  clouds  of  battle  lie, 

\Vith  soft,  consoling  sunlight  shining  through  ; 

And  round  the  sweeping  circle  of  your  hills 
The  crashing  cannon-thrills 


GETTYSBURG   ODE.  189 

Have  faded  from  the  memory  of  the  air  ; 

And  Summer  pours  from  unexhausted  fountains 

Her  bliss  on  yonder  mountains  : 
The  camps  are  tenantless,  the  breastworks  bare  : 
Earth  keeps  no  stain  where  hero-blood  was  poured : 

The  hornets,  humming  on  their  wings  of  lead. 

Have  ceased  to  sting,  their  angry  swarms  are  dead, 
And,  harmless  in  its  scabbard,  rusts  the  sword  ! 


III. 

O,  not  till  now,  —  O,  now  we  dare,  at  last, 

To  give  our  heroes  fitting  consecration  ! 
Not  till  the  soreness  of  the  strife  is  past, 

And  Peace  hath  comforted  the  weary  Nation  ! 
So  long  her  sad,  indignant  spirit  held 
One  keen  regret,  one  throb  of  pain,  unquelled  ; 
So  long  the  land  about  her  feet  was  waste, 

The  ashes  of  the  burning  lay  upon  her, 
We  stood  beside  their  graves  with  brows  abased, 

Waiting  the  purer  mood  to  do  them  honor ! 
They,  through  the  flames  of  this  dread  holocaust, 
The  patriot's  wrath,  the  soldier's  ardor,  lost : 


190  ODES. 

They  sit  above  us  and  above  our  passion, 

Disparaged  even  by  our  human  tears,  — 
Beholding  truth  our  race,  perchance,  may  fashion 

In  the  slow  process  of  the  creeping  years. 
We  saw  the  still  reproof  upon  their  faces ; 
We  heard  them  whisper  from  the  shining  spaces  : 
"  To-day  ye  grieve  :  come  not  to  us  with  sorrow  ! 
Wait  for  the  glad,  the  reconciled  To-morrow ! 
Your  grief  but  clouds  the  ether  where  we  dwell ; 

Your  anger  keeps  your  souls  and  ours  apart : 
But  come  with  peace  and  pardon,  all  is  well ! 

And  come  with  love,  we  touch  you,  heart  to  heart ! " 


IV. 

Immortal  Brothers,  we  have  heard  ! 
Our  lips  declare  the  reconciling  word  : 
For  Battle  taught,  that  set  us  face  to  face, 

The  stubborn  temper  of  the  race, 
And  both,  from  fields  no  longer  alien,  come, 

To  grander  action  equally  invited,  — 
Marshalled  by  Learning's  trump,  by  Labor's  drum, 

In  strife  that  purifies  and  makes  united  ! 
We  force  to  build,  the  powers  that  would  destroy ; 


GETTYSBURG   ODE. 

The  muscles,  hardened  by  the  sabre's  grasp, 

Now  give  our  hands  a  firmer  clasp  : 
We  bring  not  grief  to  you,  but  solemn  joy ! 

And,  feeling  you  so  near, 
Look  forward  with  your  eyes,  divinely  clear, 
To  some  sublimely-perfect,  sacred  year, 
When  sons  of  fathers  whom  ye  overcame 
Forget  in  mutual  pride  the  partial  blame, 
And  join  with  us,  to  set  the  final  crown 

Upon  your  dear  renown,  — 
The  People's  Union  in  heart  and  name  ! 


V. 

And  yet,  ye  Dead  !  —  and  yet 
Our  clouded  natures  cling  to  one  regret : 
We  are  not  all  resigned 
To  yield,  with  even  mind, 
Our  scarcely-risen  stars,  that  here  untimely  set. 
We  needs  must  think  of  History  that  waits 

For  lines  that  live  but  in  their  proud  beginning,  — 
Arrested  promises  and  cheated  fates,  — 

Youth's  boundless  venture  and  its  single  winning ! 


I92  ODES. 

We  see  the  ghosts  of  deeds  they  might  have  done, 

The  phantom  homes  that  beaconed  their  endeavor  ; 
The  seeds  of  countless  lives,  in  them  begun, 
That  might  have  multiplied  for  us  forever ! 

We  grudge  the  better  strain  of  men 
That  proved  itself,  and  was  extinguished  then  — 
The  field,  with  strength  and  hope  so  thickly  sown, 
Wherefrom  no  other  harvest  shall  be  mown  : 
For  all  the  land,  within  its  clasping  seas, 

Is  poorer  now  in  bravery  and  beauty, 
Such  wealth  of  manly  loves  and  energies 
Was* given  to  teach  us  all  the  free  man's  sacred  duty! 


VI. 

Again  't  is  they,  the  Dead, 
By  whom  our  hearts  are  comforted. 
Deep  as  the  land-blown  murmurs  of  the  waves 
The  answer  cometh  from  a  thousand  graves : 
"  Not  so  !  we  are  not  orphaned  of  our  fate  ! 
Though  life  were  warmest  and  though  love  were  sweetest, 
We  still  have  portion  in  their  best  estate : 
Our  fortune  is  the  fairest  and  completes! ! 


GETTYSBURG   ODE.  193 

Our  homes  are  everywhere  :  our  loves  are  set 

In  hearts  of  man  and  woman,  sweet  and  vernal : 
Courage  and  Truth,  the  children  we  beget, 

Unmixed  of  baser  earth,  shall  be  eternal. 
A  finer  spirit  in  the  blood  shall  give 
The  token  of  the  lines  wherein  we  live,  — 
Unselfish  force,  unconscious  nobleness 

That  in  the  shocks  of  fortune  stands  unshaken,  — 
The  hopes  that  in  their  very  being  bless, 

The  aspirations  that  to  deeds  awaken  ! 
If  aught  of  finer  virtue  ye  allow 

To  us,  that  faith  alone  its  like  shall  win  you ; 
So,  trust  like  ours  shall  ever  lift  the  brow ; 

And  strength  like  ours  shall  ever  steel  the  sinew ! 
We  are  the  blossoms  which  the  storm  has  cast 

From  the  Spring  promise  of  our  Freedom's  tree, 
Pruning  its  overgrowths,  that  so,  at  last, 

Its  later  fruit  more  bountiful  shall  be  !  — 
Content,  if,  when  the  balm  of  Time  assuages 
The  branch's  hurt,  some  fragrance  of  our  lives 

In  all  the  land  survives, 

And  makes  their  memory  sweet  through  still  expanding 
ages ! " 

9  M 


194  ODES. 

VII. 

Thus  grandly,  they  we  mourn,  themselves  console  us ; 

And,  as  their  spirits  conquer  and  control  us, 

We  hear,  from  some  high  realm  that  lies  beyond, 

The  hero-voices  of  the  Past  respond. 

From  every  State  that  reached  a  broader  right 

Through  fiery  gates  of  battle  ;  from  the  shock 

Of  old  invasions  on  the  People's  rock  ; 

From  tribes  that  stood,  in  Kings'  and  Priests'  despite 

From  graves,  forgotten  in  the  Syrian  sand, 

Or  nameless  barrows  of  the  Northern  strand, 

Or  gorges  of  the  Alps  and  Pyrenees, 

Or  the  dark  bowels  of  devouring  seas,  — 

Wherever  Man  for  Man's  sake  died,  —  wherever 

Death  stayed  the  march  of  upward-climbing  feet, 

Leaving  their  Present  incomplete, 
But  through  far  Futures* crowning  their  endeavor,  — 
Their  ghostly  voices  to  our  ears  are  sent, 
As  when  the  high  note  of  a  trumpet  wrings 

^olian  answers  from  the  strings 
Of  many  a  mute,  unfingered  instrument ! 
Platoean  cymbals  thrill  for  us  to-day ; 
The  horns  of  Sempach  in  our  echoes  play, 


GETTYSBURG    ODE.  1 95 

And  nearer  yet,  and  sharper,  and  more  stern, 
The  slogan  rings  that  startled  Bannockburn  ; 
Till  from  the  field,  made  green  with  kindred  deed, 
The  shields  are  clashed  in  exultation 

Above  the  dauntless  Nation, 
That  for  a  Continent  has  fought  its  Runnymede  ! 


VIII. 

Ay,  for  a  Continent !     The  heart  that  beats 

With  such  rich  blood  of  sacrifice 
Shall,  from  the  Tropics,  drowsed  with  languid  heats, 

To  the  blue  ramparts  of  the  Northern  ice, 
Make  felt  its  pulses,  all  this  young  world  over  !  — 

Shall  thrill,  and  shake,  and  sway 
Each  land  that  bourgeons  in  the  Western  day, 
Whatever  flag  may  float,  whatever  shield  may  cover  ! 
With  fuller  manhood  every  wind  is  rife, 

In  every  soil  are  sown  the  seeds  of  valor, 
Since  out  of  death  came  forth  such  boundless  life, 

Such  ruddy  beauty  out  of  anguished  pallor ! 

And  that  first  deed,  along  the  southern  wave, 

Spoiled  not  the  sister-land,  but  lent  an  arm  to  save ! 


196  ODES. 

IX. 

Now,  in  her  seat  secure, 
Where  distant  menaces  no  more  can  reach  her, 

Our  land,  in  undivided  freedom  pure, 
Becomes  the  unwilling  world's  unconscious  teacher ; 
And,  day  by  day,  beneath  serener  skies, 
The  unshaken  pillars  of  her  palace  rise,  — 
The  Doric  shafts,  that  lightly  upward  press, 
And  hide  in  grace  their  giant  massiveness. 
What  though  the  sword  has  hewn  each  corner-stone, 

And  precious  blood  cements  the  deep  foundation  ! 
Never  by  other  force  have  empires  grown  ; 

From  other  basis  never  rose  a  nation  ! 
For  strength  is  born  of  struggle,  faith  of  doubt, 

Of  discord  law,  and  freedom  of  oppression  : 
We  hail  from  Pi«gah,  with  exulting  shout, 
The  Promised  Land  below  us,  bright  with  sun, 

And  deem  its  pastures  won, 

Ere  toil  and  blood  have  earned  us  their  possession  ! 
Each  aspiration  of  our  human  earth 
Becomes  an  act  through  keenest  pangs  of  birth  ; 
Each  force,  to  bless,  must  cease  to  be  a  dream, 
And  conquer  life  through  agony  supreme  ; 


GETTYSBURG   ODE.  1 97 

Each  inborn  right  must  outwardly  be  tested 
By  stern  material  weapons,  ere  it  stand 
In  the  enduring  fabric  of  the  land, 
Secured  for  those  who  yielded  it,  and  those  who  wrested  ! 


X. 

This  they  have  done  for  us  who  slumber  here,  — 
Awake,  alive,  though  now  so  dumbly  sleeping ; 
Spreading  the  board,  but  tasting  not  its  cheer, 

Sowing,  but  never  reaping ;  — 
Building,  but  never  sitting  in  the  shade 
Of  the  strong  mansion  they  have  made  ;  — 
Speaking  their  word  of  life  with  mighty  tongue, 
But  hearing  not  the  echo,  million-voiced, 

Of  brothers  who  rejoiced, 
From  all  our  river  vales  and  mountains  flung  ! 
So  take  them,  Heroes  of  the  songful  Past ! 
Open  your  ranks,  let  every  shining  troop 

Its  phantom  banners  droop, 
To  hail  Earth's  noblest  martyrs,  and  her  last ! 

Take  them,  O  Fatherland  ! 
Who,  dying,  conquered  in  thy  name ; 

And,  with  a  grateful  hand, 


19$  ODES. 

Inscribe  their  deed  who  took  away  thy  blame,  — 
Give,  for  their  grandest  all,  thine  insufficient  fame  ! 

Take  them,  O  God  !  our  Brave, 
The  glad  fulfillers  of  Thy  dread  decree  j 
Who  grasped  the  sword  for  Peace,  and  smote  to  save, 
And, -dying  here  for  Freedom,  also  died  for  Thee  ! 


SHAKESPEARE'S    STATUE. 

CENTRAL  PARK,  NEW  YORK,  MAY  23,  1872. 
I. 

IN  this  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun, 
Where  stubborn  granite  grudgingly  gives  place 
To  petted  turf,  the  garden's  daintier  race 

Of  flowers,  and  Art  hath  slowly  won 
A  smile  from  grim,  primeval  barrenness, 

What  alien  Form  doth  stand  ? 
Where  scarcely  yet  the  heroes  of  the  land, 
As  in  their  future's  haven,  from  the  stress 
Of  all  conflicting  tides,  find  quiet  deep 

Of  bronze  or  marble  sleep, 
What  stranger  comes,  to  join  the  scanty  band  ? 

Who  pauses  here,  as  one  that  muses 

While  centuries  of  men  go  by, 

And  unto  all  our  questioning  refuses 

His  clear,  infallible  reply  ? 
Who  hath  his  will  of  us,  beneath  our  new-world  sky  ? 


200  ODES. 

II. 

Here,  in  his  right,  he  stands  ! 
No  breadth  of  earth-dividing  seas  can  bar 
The  breeze  of  morning,  or  the  morning  star, 

From  visiting  our  lands  : 
His  wit,  the  breeze,  his  wisdom,  as  the  star, 
Shone  where  our  earliest  life  was  set,  and  blew 

To  freshen  hope  and  plan 

In  brains  American,  — 
To  urge,  resist,  encourage,  and  subdue ! 
He  came,  a  household  ghost  we  could  not  ban  : 
He  sat,  on  winter  nights,  by  cabin-fires  ; 
His  summer  fairies  linked  their  hands 

Along  our  yellow  sands  ; 
He  preached  within  the  shadow  of  our  spires  ; 
And  when  the  certain  Fate  drew  nigh,  to  cleave 
The  birth-cord,  and  a  separate  being  leave, 
He,  in  our  ranks  of  patient-hearted  men, 
Wrought  with  the  boundless  forces  of  his  fame, 

Victorious,  and  became 
The  Master  of  our  thought,  the  land's  first  Citizen  ! 


SHAKESPEARE'S  STATUE.  2OI 

III. 

If,  here,  his  image  seem 
Of  softer  scenes  and  grayer  skies  to  dream, 
Thatched  cot  and  rustic  tavern,  ivied  hall, 

The  cuckoo's  April  call 
And  cowslip-meads  beside  the  Avon  stream, 
He  shall  not  fail  that  other  home  to  find 

We  could  not  leave  behind  ! 
The  forms  of  Passion,  which  his  fancy  drew, 

In  us  their  ancient  likenesses  beget ; 
So,  from  our  lives  forever  born  anew, 

He  stands  amid  his  own  creations  yet ! 
Here  comes  lean  Cassius,  of  conventions  tired ; 

Here,  in  his  coach,  luxurious  Antony 
Beside  his  Egypt,  still  of  men  admired  \ 
And  Brutus  plans  some  purer  liberty ! 
A  thousand  Shylocks,  Jew  and  Christian,  pass ; 
A  hundred  Hamlets,  by  their  times  betrayed  • 
And  sweet  Anne  Page  comes  tripping  o'er  the  grass, 

And  an  tiered  Falstaff  pants  beneath  the  shade. 
Here  toss  upon  the  wanton  summer  wind 
The  locks  of  Rosalind  ; 
9* 


02  ODES. 

Here  some  gay  glove  the  damned  spot  conceals 

Which  Lady  Macbeth  feels : 
His  ease  here  smiling  smooth  lago  takes, 

And  outcast  Lear  gives  passage  to  his  woe, 
And  here  some  foiled  Reformer  sadly  breaks 

His  wand  of  Prospero  ! 
In  liveried  splendor,  side  by  side, 
Nick  Bottom  and  Titania  ride ; 
And  Portia,  flushed  with  cheers  of  men, 
Disdains  dear,  faithful  Imogen  ; 
And  Puck,  beside  the  form  of  Morse, 
Stops  on  his  forty-minute  course; 
And  Ariel  from  his  swinging  bough 
A  blossom  casts  on  Bryant's  brow, 
Until,  as  summoned  from  his  brooding  brain, 

He  sees  his  children  all  again, 
In  us,  as  on  our  lips,  each  fresh,  immortal  strain  ! 


IV. 

Be  welcome,  Master  !     In  our  active  air 

Keep  the  calm  strength  we  need  to  learn  of  thee ! 

A  steadfast  anchor  be 
Mid  passions  that  exhaust,  and  times  that  wear ! 


SHAKESPEARE'S  STATUE.  203 

Thy  kindred  race,  that  scarcely  knows 

What  power  is  in  Repose, 
What  permanence  in  Patience,  what  renown 
In  silent  faith  and  plodding  toil  of  Art 

That  shyly  works  apart, 
All  these  in  thee  unconsciously  doth  crown ! 


V. 

The  Many  grow,  through  honor  to  the  One  ; 
And  what  of  loftier  life  we  do  not  live, 

This  Form  shall  help  to  give, 
In  our  free  Pantheon  of  the  air  and  sun  ! 
Here,  where  the  noise  of  Trade  is  loudest, 

It  builds  a  shrine  august, 
To  show,  while  pomp  of  wealth  is  proudest, 

How  brief  is  gilded  dust : 

How  Art  succeeds,  though  long, 
And  o'er  the  tumult  of  the  generations, 
The  strong,  enduring  spirit  of  the  nations, 

How  speaks  the  voice  of  Song ! 
Our  City,  at  her  gateways  of  the  sea, 

Twines  bay  around  the  mural  crown  upon  her, 
And  wins  new  grace  and  dearer  dignity, 


204  ODES. 

Giving  our  race's  Poet  honor ! 

If  such  as  he 
Again  may  ever  be, 
And  our  humanity  another  crown 

Find  in  some  equal,  late  renown, 
The  reverence  of  what  he  was  shall  call  it  down  ! 


GOETHE. 

NEW  YORK,  AUGUST  28,  1875. 

I. 

WHOSE  voice  shall  so  invade  the  spheres 
That,  ere  it  die,  the  Master  hears  ? 

Whose  arm  is  now  so  strong 
To  fling  the  votive  garland  of  a  song, 
That  some  fresh  odor  of  a  world  he  knew 
With  large  enjoyment,  and  may  yet 

Not  utterly  forget, 
Shall  reach  his  place,  and  whisper  whence  it  grew  ? 

Dare  we  invoke  him,  that  he  pause 
On  trails  divine  of  unimagined  laws, 

And  bend  the  luminous  eyes 
Experience  could  not  dim,  nor  Fate  surprise, 
On  these  late  honors,  where  we  fondly  seem, 
Him  thus  exalting,  like  him  to  aspire, 

And  reach,  in  our  desire, 
The  triumph  of  his  toil,  the  beauty  of  his  dream  ! 


206  ODES. 

II. 

God  moulds  no  second  poet  from  the  clay 
Time  once  hath  cut  in  marble  :  when,  at  last, 

The  veil  is  plucked  away, 
We  see  no  face  familiar  to  the  Past. 

New  mixtures  of  the  elements, 
And  fresh  espousals  of  the  soul  and  sense, 

At  first  disguise 

The  unconjectured  Genius  to  our  eyes, 
Till  self-nursed  faith  and  self  encouraged  power 

Win  the  despotic  hour 
That  bids  our  doubting  race  accept  and  recognize  ! 


III. 

Ah,  who  shall  say  what  cloud  of  disregard, 
Cast  by  the  savage  ancient  fame 

Of  some  forgotten  name, 

Mantled  the  Chian  bard  ? 
He  walked  beside  the  strong,  prophetic  sea, 
Indifferent  as  itself,  and  nobly  free  ; 
While  roll  of  waves  and  rhythmic  sound  of  oars 

Along  Ionian  shores, 


GOETHE.  207 

To  Troy's  high  story  chimed  in  undertone, 
And  gave  his  song  the  accent  of  their  own  ! 
What  classic  ghost  severe  was  summoned  up 
To  threaten  Dante,  when  the  bitter  bread 

Of  exile  on  his  board  was  spread, 
The  bitter  wine  of  bounty  filled  his  cup  ? 
We  need  not  ask  :  the  unpropitious  years, 

The  hate  of  Guelf,  the  lordly  sneers 
Of  Delia  Scala's  court,  the  Roman  ban, 
Were  but  as  eddying  dust 
To  his  firm-centred  trust ; 
For  through  that  air  without  a  star 
Burned  one  unwavering  beacon  from  afar, 
That  kept  him  his  and  ours,  the  stern,  immortal  man ! 
What  courtier,  stuffed  with  smooth,  accepted  lore 

Of  Song's  patrician  line, 

But  shrugged  his  velvet  shoulders  all  the  more, 
And  heard,  with  bland  indulgent  face, 

As  who  bestows  a  grace, 
The  homely  phrase  that  Shakespeare  made  divine  ? 

So,  now,  the  dainty  souls  that  crave 
Light  stepping-stones  across  a  shallow  wave, 
Shrink  from  the  deeps  of  Goethe's  soundless  song ! 
So,  now,  the  weak,  imperfect  fire 


208  ODES. 

That  knows  but  half  of  passion  and  desire 
Betrays  itself,  to  do  the  Master  wrong  ;  — 
Turns,  dazzled  by  his  white,  uncolored  glow, 
And  deems  his  sevenfold  he:.t  the  wintry  flash  of  snow  ! 


IV. 

Fate,  like  a  grudging  child, 

Herself  once  reconciled 
To  power  by  loss,  by  suffering  to  fame ; 

Weighing  the  Poet's  name 
With  blindness,  exile,  want,  and  aims  denied ; 
Or  let  faint  spirits  perish  in  their  pride  ; 
Or  gave  her  justice  when  its  need  had  died  ; 

But  as  if  weary  she 
Of  struggle  crowned  by  victory, 
Him  with  the  largesse  of  her  gifts  she  tried ! 
Proud  beauty  to  the  boy  she  gave  : 

A  lip  that  bubbled  song,  yet  lured  the  bee  ; 

i 
An  eye  of  light,  a  forehead  pure  and  free  ; 

Strength  as  of  streams,  and  grace  as  of  the  wave  ! 

Round  him  the  morning  air 
Of  life  she  charmed,  and  made  his  pathway  fair ; 

Lent  Love  her  lightest  chain, 


GOETHE.  209 

That  laid  no  bondage  on  the  haughty  brain, 
And  cheapened  honors  with  a  new  disdain  : 

Kept,  through  the  shocks  of  Time, 
For  him  the  haven  of  a  peace  sublime, 

And  let  his  sight  forerun 
The  sown  achievement,  to  the  harvest  won  ! 


V. 

But  Fortune's  darling  stood  unspoiled : 

Caressing  Love  and  Pleasure, 
He  let  not  go  the  imperishable  treasure : 
He  thought,  and  sported  ;  carolled  free,  and  toiled  : 
He  stretched  wide  arms  to  clasp  the  joy  of  Earth, 

But  delved  in  every  field 
Of  knowledge,  conquering  all  clear  worth 
Of  action,  that  ennobles  through  the  sense 
Of  wholly  used  intelligence  : 

From  loftiest  pinnacles,  that  shone  revealed 

• » 
In  pure  poetic  ether,  he  could  bend 

To  win  the  little  store 
Of  humblest  Labor's  lore, 

And  give  each  face  of  Life  the  greeting  of  a  friend  ! 
He  taught,  and  governed,  —  knew  the  thankless  days 


210  ODES. 

Of  service  and  dispraise  ; 
He  followed  Science  on  her  stony  ways  ; 
He  turned  from  princely  state,  to  heed 

The  single  nature's  need, 
And,  through  the  chill  of  hostile  years, 
Never  unlearned  the  noble  shame  of  tears ! 
Faced  by  fulfilled  Ideals,  he  aspired 
To  win  the  perished  secret  of  their  grace,— 
To  dower  the  earnest  children  of  a  race 
Toil  never  tamed,  nor  acquisition  tired, 
With  Freedom  born  of  Beauty  !  —  and  for  them 

His  Titan  soul  combined 

The  passions  of  the  mind, 
Which  blood  and  time  so  long  had  held  apart, 
Till  the  white  blossom  of  the  Grecian  Art 
The  world  saw  shine  once  more,  upon  a  Gothic  stem  ! 


VI. 

His  measure  would  we  mete  ? 
It  is  a  sea  that  murmurs  at  our  feet. 

Wait,  first,  upon  the  strand  : 

A  far  shore  glimmers  —  "  knowest  thou  the  land  ?  " 
Whence  these  gay  flowers  that  breathe  beside  the  water  ? 


GOETHE.  2  I  I 

Ask  thou  the  Erl-King's  daughter  ! 
It  is  no  cloud  that  darkens  thus  the  shore : 

Faust  on  his  mantle  passes  o'er. 

The  water  roars,  the  water  heaves, 
The  trembling  waves  divide : 

A  shape  of  beauty,  rising,  cleaves 

The  green  translucent  tide. 
The  shape  is  a  charm,  the  voice  is  a  spell ; 
We  yield,  and  dip  in  the  gentle  swell. 
Then  billowy  arms  our  limbs  entwine, 
And,  chill  as  the  hidden  heat  of  wine, 
We  meet  the  shock  of  the  sturdy  brine  ; 
And  we  feel,  beneath  the  surface-flow, 
The  tug  of  the  powerful  undertow, 

That  ceaselessly  gathers  and  sweeps 
To  broader  surges  and  darker  deeps ; 
Till,  faint  and  breathless,  we  can  but  float 
Idly,  and  listen  to  many  a  note 
From  horns  of  the  Tritons  flun£  afar  ; 

O  * 

And  see,  on  the  watery  rim, 
The  circling  Dorides  swim, 
And  Cypris,  poised  on  her  dove-drawn  car ! 
Torn  from  the  deepest  caves, 
Sea-blooms  brighten  the  waves  : 


212  ODES. 

The  breaker  throws  pearls  on  the  sand, 
And  inlets  pierce  to  the  heart  of  the  land, 

Winding  by  clorf  and  mill, 
Where  the  shores  are  green  and  the  waters  still, 

And  the  force,  but  now  so  wild, 
Mirrors  the  maiden  and  sports  with  the  child  ! 
Spent  from  the  sea,  we  gain  its  brink, 

With  soul  aroused  and  limbs  aflame : 
Half  are  we  drawn,  and  half  we  sink, 

But  rise  no  more  the  same. 


VII. 

O  meadows  threaded  by  the  silver  Main ! 

O  Saxon  hills  of  pine, 
Witch-haunted  Hartz,  and  thou, 

Deep  vale  of  Ilmenau  ! 
Ye  knew  your  poet ;  and  not  only  ye  : 

The  purple  Tyrrhene  Sea 
Not  murmurs  Virgil  less,  but  him  the  more ; 

The  Lar  of  haughty  Rome 

Gave  the  high  guest  a  home  : 
He  dwells  with  Tasso  on  Sorrento's  shore  ! 
The  dewy  wild-rose  of  his  German  lays, 


GOETHE.  213 

Beside  the  classic  cyclamen, 

In  many  a  Sabine  glen, 
Sweetens  the  calm  Italian  days. 
But  pass  the  hoary  ridge  of  Lebanon, 

To  where  the  sacred  sun 
Beams  on  Schiraz  ;  and  lo  !  before  the  gates, 

Goethe,  the  heir  of  Hafiz,  waits. 
Know  ye  the  turbaned  brow,  the  Persian  guise, 
The  bearded  lips,  the  deep  yet  laughing  eyes  ? 
A  cadence  strange  and  strong 
Fills  each  voluptuous  song, 
And  kindles  energy  from  old  repose ; 
Even  as  first,  amid  the  throes 

Of  the  unquiet  West, 
He  breathed  repose  to  heal  the  eld  unrest ! 


VIII. 

Dear  is  the  Minstrel,  yet  the  Man  is  more  ; 
But  should  I  turn  the  pages  of  his  brain, 
The  lighter  muscle  of  my  verse  would  strain 

And  break  beneath  his  lore. 
How  charge  with  music  powers  so  vast  and  free, 

Save  one  be  great  as  he  ? 


214  ODES. 

Behold  him,  as  ye  jostle  with  the  throng 
Through  narrow  ways,  that  do  your  beings  wrong, 
Self  chosen  lanes,  wherein  ye  press 

In  louder  Storm  and  Stress, 
Passing  the  lesser  bounty  by 
Because  the  greater  seems  too  high, 
And  that  sublimest  joy  forego, 
To  seek,  aspire,  and  know ! 
Behold  in  him,  since  our  strong  line  began, 

The  first  full-statured  man  ! 
Dear  is  the  Minstrel,  even  to  hearts  of  prose ; 
But  he  who  sets  all  aspiration  free 

Is  dearer  to  humanity. 

Still  through  our  age  the  shadowy  Leader  goes ; 
Still  whispers  cheer,  or  waves  his  warning  sign  ; 

The  man  who,  most  of  men, 
Heeded  the  parable  from  lips  divine, 
And  made  one  talent  ten ! 


THE    END. 


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